


Diversion

by susancreature



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Infidelity, Marriage, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susancreature/pseuds/susancreature
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry your engagement's over," he said, knowing full well that it wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Shook Up

**Author's Note:**

> Longtime Sherlolly shipper, first time writer. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

The lab felt eerily quiet after everyone cleared out. Mary had given Molly a hug and promised that they would meet up soon, then she had shepherded the strange group of men, only one of whom was not currently on heroin, out of the lab.

The great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had caused a great number of emotions to course through the heart of Molly Hooper. Some of those emotions had even been positive.

She had a list. Not written down, of course. She would never be so careless. No, she kept the list only in her head. She didn't have a Mind Palace. More like a Mind Desk, with a few drawers and maybe a diary up top to keep her appointments straight. One of those drawers, of course, belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and within it she kept this list. Sometimes she would rearrange the list alphabetically, or chronologically, or by their current intensity.

_Betrayal._

_Frustration_.

_Disappointment._

Her engagement was still on, and she knew he knew it. The ring was in its box, tucked in her purse, locked in her locker, just as it always was while she worked. She couldn't bear the thought of accidentally marring it with blood or chemicals.

No, Sherlock knew full well that she and Tom were still very much planning a wedding. But he went in for the kill, honing in on years of insecurity he could always read all over her. The fear that she would grow old alone, that she didn't deserve the kind of love that movies and novels had promised her for decades.

She loved Tom. Really, she did. She was going to marry Tom and live happily ever after. She remembered now why she could never be with Sherlock Holmes. Not because he didn't want her, but because, insecure as she might be, she knew she deserved to be treated better than he was capable.

A text alert from her phone shook her out of her thoughts. She pulled the phone from her pocket and read the message. 

_I'm making pasta tonight. Red sauce or white? TT_

She managed a slight smile as she tapped out a reply. 

_White, please, and don't forget to chill the wine. MH_

With a soft chuckle, she shoved the phone back in her pocket and put her face in her hands. She wanted to cry, but she had work to do. So she bit back her tears and left the lab to get herself a coffee. 

* * *

 "I think I've found one!" she called, pulling her legs underneath her in a more comfortable position.  Beckham, Tom's yellow labrador retriever, was curled up next to Molly, and he placed his chin on her knee. She scratched him between the ears, and he closed his eyes.

"Yeah?" Tom called back from the kitchen. "Something I'll actually like?" 

"I hope so! Murder mystery."

"I should have chilled two bottles," he teased, coming into the sitting room with two bowls of chicken alfredo balanced on one hand, two glasses of pinot grigio held in the other. She gently shooed Beckham off the sofa and took her bowl and glass.

Molly started the movie, and the two of them dug into their meal. "This is rather good," she said after several bites. 

"Yeah, well, there's a reason I do most of the cooking, yeah?" he replied with a grin. "If I left dinner in your hands, we'd be living off takeaway."

"I like takeaway," she said, shrugging. As they ate, Tom told her about his day at the office. Something about a difficult client finally choosing a house after a long and tedious search. She sort of listened, but she really wanted to watch the movie.

"And how was your day?" he asked after a while.

"I saw Mary and John today," she said, twirling her last few noodles around her fork.

"Oh, yeah? That must have been nice."

"Not really." She finished her food and set the bowl on the side table. "They brought their neighbour's son to see me for drugs testing, along with two of his friends."

"Since when do pathologists do drugs testing on living patients?"

"One of the friends was Sherlock."

"Sherlock." Tom dropped his fork into his empty bowl with a loud _clink_. "You couldn't have led with that?"

"What, with Sherlock needing a drugs test?"

"With you seeing Sherlock."  He got to his feet and snatched up her bowl, taking it with his own into the kitchen.

"For drugs testing!" She fumbled with the remote and paused the movie. She had to shout over the sound of the kitchen sink running. "Which, by the way, turned out positive."

The sink turned off. "Positive? For what?"

"Heroin." Tom came back into the sitting room and joined her again on the sofa, but his jaw was still set in anger. "John found him in some drug den. He kept babbling about it being for a case, but, oh, Tom, there was so much in his system."

"And I suppose he'll walk away with his reputation intact."

"No, I don't think so. He said something before he left about his drug habit hitting the papers. The git actually sounded happy about it, too."

"And how did it make you feel?"

"How did it make _me_ feel? How do you think it made me feel?" She rubbed her hand, remembering the sting of its impact against Sherlock's face. "I can't remember ever having been so angry. I may have slapped him."

"May have?"

"Three times. It happened so fast."

"Wow. I'm proud of you, babe." The muscles in his face relaxed, and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I'm sorry for... all that. It's just--"

"I know. It's a sore subject." She moved across him so that she was straddling his lap, her arms circling around his shoulders. "But I promise you, I am so, so very over him. And so, so very ready to be Mrs. Molly Grace Taylor."

"I love the way that sounds." He cupped her face and pulled her in for a kiss.

They had had a spectacular row after Mary and John's wedding. It started out with him telling her off for stabbing him with a fork and had only gotten worse from there. He knew, and had known for a long time, that Molly had been in love with Sherlock. After his apparent return from the dead, she had done everything she could to prove to Tom that she was over her former infatuation with the detective. She never told him about the day she spent helping Sherlock with a string of clients, and she didn't intend to. Everything was fine until the wedding, when she hadn't been able to hide her admiration as Sherlock solved two crimes at once, right there between dinner and dancing. He also didn't miss her longing glance as Sherlock left the reception early.

After the reception, they had taken a cab back to Tom's place, and he'd made a snide remark about how at least his hand hadn't been too badly mangled. They'd barely made it through the door before Tom demanded to know why she hadn't agreed to move in with him.

"Is it because you don't plan to see this engagement through?" he had asked her. They had spent the next hour shouting, crying, and shouting some more. Molly had been shocked to hear that Tom felt like she was just using him as a placeholder until someone better came along. He couldn't help but wonder whether she had only accepted his proposal to keep up appearances while her beloved Sherlock Holmes was away playing dead. The fight had ended with her storming out and going home. The next morning, she had phoned him and asked to meet for brunch. He had agreed, and she had explained that she had come around to understand how he felt. She had assured him that, while she still considered Sherlock a friend, her heart now belonged only to Thomas Edmund Taylor.

"Do you want to finish the movie?" Tom asked, pulling back from the kiss.

"Movie? What movie?"

"My thoughts exactly." He stood, taking Molly with him, and carried her toward the bedroom.

As he began to unbutton her jumper, Molly couldn't help but wonder how the movie ended.


	2. Separate Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for the kind comments!

 "I'm so glad you all could make it," Molly said, clasping her hands. "Since I'm the only one here who knows everyone, why don't we all go around the table and say our names, our occupations, and a random fact about ourselves. I'll go first. I'm Molly Hooper, specialist registrar in histopathology at Bart's, and when I was growing up, my favourite singer was Elvis Presley."

Molly was sitting in a cafe with Mary and her other two bridesmaids, Meena and Judy. After a month of trying, she had finally managed to get them all together for official introductions. Meena and Judy were acquainted through the hospital, but only just. 

"All right, I'll go," said the black woman on Molly's left. "I'm Judy Winslow, I'm a pediatric nurse practitioner, also at Bart's, and I love thunderstorms."

"Mary Watson," Mary said, pointing to herself. "I'm a nurse at my husband's GP clinic, and I speak four languages."

"Wow, four?" Judy asked, eyebrows raised.

"I've got a bit of an ear for them, it seems."

"And here I thought I could impress with my bilingualism," Meena said, grinning. "I'm Meena Suryanarayana, orthopaedic surgeon, and I've got a pet rabbit."

"A rabbit?" Judy asked. 

"His name is Cadbury," Molly volunteered.

A waitress came to take their orders, and after they had placed them, they began to make tentative plans for the coming weeks. There was still so much to do. They had chosen a venue, and Tom's family's minister would perform the ceremony. Beyond that, not much had been decided. She had settled on a lilac and peach color scheme, and her bridesmaids gave their approval.

Molly pulled a thick diary from her bag and placed it on the table. She opened it up and started scribbling dates and availabilities inside. Molly helped Mike Stamford teach a class on Monday nights. Meena couldn't do Tuesdays because that's when she scheduled surgeries. Wednesday nights were both date night for Mary and John and Judy's spin class. Judy was out every other Thursday evening, too, as she had to babysit her sister's two young children. Sundays were difficult for Meena because of family obligations, but if scheduled far enough in advance she could arrange to get away for a few hours. 

"Well, aren't we a bunch of busy birds!" Molly exclaimed. Their food arrived, and she set the planning aside for a bit so that they could enjoy their meal. They chatted about work and telly, and everyone asked Mary lots of questions about how the baby was coming along. 

After they had finished eating and planning, they left the cafe and said their goodbyes. Meena had no other plans, so she and Molly decided to go shopping.

"Any idea what you'd like to do for the hen night?" Meena asked as they browsed the racks in a boutique. 

"We're still at least six months out and you're already planning the hen night?"

"Well, yeah. Isn't that one of the best parts of being a maid of honour? How many strippers do you think is too many?" 

"Please be joking," Molly laughed. 

"Because I was thinking seven is a good number, but if we have a party of 75--"

"Don't you have big dreams!"

"A girl has to have dreams! But really, what did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess a trip to the pub or something. Maybe in some silly hats."

"Molly, Molly, Molly! You've got to think bigger!" Meena pulled a slinky red dress off the rack and holding it up in front of her friend. "This is a one in a lifetime experience! A changing of the seasons! A grand farewell to maidenhood!" 

Molly took the dress and ran her hand over the silky fabric. "I hate to tell you this, Meena, but I said farewell to maidenhood back at uni."

"Oh, hush, you! Try on the damn dress!" Giggling, Molly approached the cashier and asked for a fitting room. She pulled off her blouse and trousers and slid the dress over her head. When she looked in the mirror, she wasn't sure who was looking back at her. 

Timidly, she opened the fitting room door and stepped out. "Well?" she said, spinning around to make the skirt flare. 

"Oh," Meena said, her brow furrowing. "Oh, dear." She walked past Molly and into the fitting room. "Molly?" she called. "Molly, are you in there?" 

"What are you doing?" Molly cried, her cheeks threatening to outshine the dress. 

"I'm looking for my friend," Meena said, picking up Molly's blouse and examining it closely. "She went into this very fitting room a few minutes ago, and then an absolute sex goddess came out!" She turned and grinned at Molly, then broke out into laughter at the expression on the shorter woman's face.

"You bitch," Molly said, trying to scowl but failing. 

"Oh, your face was priceless," Meena said. "But seriously, look at you!" She took Molly by the shoulders and steered her over to the full length mirror. "This dress is amazing.  _You_ look amazing. Take your hair down." Molly complied, pulling the band from her ponytail and shaking out her hair. "You  _must_ buy this dress. Even if you don't wear it for the hen night."

"Do you think Tom will like it?" Molly asked, turning to inspect the dress from other angles. 

"I think if Tom has any sense at all, he'll like it so much that he'll want to rip it off of you with his teeth. Go get changed back before  _I_ rip it off with my teeth!"

Molly laughed and went back to the fitting room to change. As she walked out to meet Meena, she looked at the price tag, and her smile melted. 

"What?" Meena asked, looking over her shoulder. 

"It's just so expensive," Molly lamented. 

"You're a bloody doctor. You can afford it."

"Well, yeah, but--"

"When's the last time you bought something for yourself that didn't come from H&M?"

"I got this top at Jigsaw."

"On clearance?"

"So?"

"So, you deserve nice things once in a while."

"You're a terrible influence on me."

Molly bought the dress, and she and Meena spent the rest of the afternoon browsing shops and drinking lattes. Around 5:30, Meena said she really ought to be getting home, and Molly shared her sentiment. Toby was used to having her home on Saturday afternoons, after all. 

Molly's phone sounded a text alert, and she pulled it from her pocket. 

_OMG! You'll never guess what John's just told me! MW_

_What's that? MH_

_Sherlock and Janine are DATING. MW_

Molly nearly dropped her phone.

_Shock._

_Disbelief._

_Resentment._

Noticing the sudden change in her friend's expression, Meena asked, "What is it?" 

"Sherlock. He's... he's got a girlfriend."

"A girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Mary just told me he's apparently dating Janine."

"From Mary's wedding?"

"The very same."

"Are you all right?" Meena asked, putting her hand on Molly's arm. 

"Of course I'm all right. What do I care if he's got a girlfriend? He could have ten girlfriends for all it matters to me."

"Molly, this is me you're talking to. And you were in love with him for, like, forever."

"Yes, but I've got Tom now. I'm happy for him. Really."

"I don't believe a word you're saying."

"Well, you should. I mean, one of us has to."

"Oh, Molly. Want me to take her out? I saw the wedding photos, she doesn't look too tough."

"No," Molly said, forcing a small laugh. "No. I  _should_ be happy for him. And I will be. This will be good for me."

"You think so?" 

"Yeah. He's got a girlfriend, and I'm getting married. The timing couldn't be better."

_Good for him! MH_


	3. There Goes My Everything

Molly stretched out and put her feet on Tom's lap. Within minutes, Toby, her grey and white tabby, hopped up to curl up on her belly. They were sitting on Molly's sofa and watching a true crime documentary. Well, Molly was watching it. Tom was busily tapping away on his mobile. 

"Do you want me to turn something else on?" she asked, stroking Toby's back. 

"No, this is fine," he murmured, eyes still glued to the phone. 

"Okay." She kept stroking Toby, and he purred in feline bliss. The programme was a bit boring, as she had figured out the big twist about halfway through. Her gaze drifted over to Tom, hoping that he would look up and pay attention to her. After a few minutes, she said, "I had a good day out with the girls today."

"Good, good."

"I bought a new dress."

"Molly," he sighed, finally looking up. "I've got a load of emails to catch up on here. Can't this wait?" 

"Sure. Of course." She turned her attention back toward the telly, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. What was even the point of him coming over if he was going to spend the whole evening on his phone? He could have done that at home. 

Her own phone dinged. 

_Just finished looking thru photos again. Offer still stands to kick her arse. MS_

Suppressing a giggle, she set the phone back down on the couch beside her. She picked Toby up and cuddled him to her chest, and he nuzzled her face. Her mood temporarily restored, she immersed herself back into the mystery on screen, thin as it was. 

"I think we should go look at a house," Tom said after some time. 

"A house?"

"Yeah. I saw a listing yesterday that I think would be perfect for us." He finally put his phone down and turned to look at her. "A couple was considering it, but decided to look elsewhere. I think we ought to see it before it gets snatched up."

"Okay. Where is it?" 

"Sutton."

"Sutton!" She exclaimed. "Why so far away?" 

"It's not that far," he scoffed. "It's safe, and it has good schools."

"Schools? Isn't it a bit soon to be thinking about that?" 

"Molly, we're supposed to be planning a future, not just a wedding."

"I know, but--"

"Why put it off, then? We'll go look at the house Monday night--"

"I can't Monday, I've got class."

"Shit. Fine, we'll go Tuesday. Just try to keep an open mind, yeah? Maybe it's awful, but you might fall in love with it. The photos are quite good. Let me pull them up." He took up his mobile again. 

Before he could find the listing, Molly's phone rang. She looked at the screen. 

"Why on earth is John Watson calling me at this hour?" she wondered aloud, picking up the phone to answer it. "Hello?" 

"Molly. You're there. Oh, Jesus. We're, uh, we're at... Christ, have I got you at a bad time?"

She sat up, gently pushing Toby off her lap and onto the sofa. "No, not at all. What's wrong, John? Is Mary all right? The baby?" 

"Mary's fine, the baby's fine." He hesitated. "It's Sherlock. He's been shot."

* * *

Molly all but ran through the automatic doors into the emergency department waiting area. Tom followed close on her heels. She saw John pacing near the refreshments alcove, and she approached him. He let out a breath when he saw her, as if he hadn't realized he was holding it until he wasn't alone.

"What happened?" Molly asked, pulling him into a tight hug. 

"I don't know. It all happened so fast." He pulled out of the hug and reached out to grasp Tom's hand. "Tom, thanks for coming. I don't know how much I can say. Mycroft told him not to get involved with this one. I don't know how it went so wrong."

"Lets go sit down, shall we?" Tom suggested, placing a hand on John's shoulder. John nodded and allowed himself to be led to the seating area.  Molly sat next to him, and Tom sat across. 

"Mary is on her way," John said. "And Greg. He's gone to pick up Mrs. Hudson, they should be along soon. I phoned Mycroft. I don't know if he's coming." He placed his head in his hands.

"Did you phone Janine?" Molly asked. John looked up at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Mary told me," she explained quickly. 

"Janine... has been informed," he muttered, not meeting her gaze. She cocked an eyebrow but didn't press him. There would be time for questions later. 

"Mary's here," Tom said, nodding toward the door. She rushed over to them and sat beside her husband, taking him into her arms. Molly quietly stood and moved to sit next to Tom. He took her hand, and she squeezed his. 

"Is he gonna be okay?" Mary asked. 

"Don't know," John said, his voice cracking.

"John." Mary pulled back to look at her husband. "What happened? Who shot him?" 

"I don't know," he said. "I was in another room when it happened. I didn't even hear the shot." Tears shone in his eyes. "I just got him back."

"Hush now," Mary said, hugging him to her once again. "He's going to be fine. I just know it."

The doors slid open, and Mrs. Hudson came through on Lestrade's arm. John stood and met them. He wrapped his arms around Mrs. Hudson, who immediately started sobbing. 

Lestrade sat down next to Mary. "What happened?" he asked. "How the hell did he go and get himself shot?"

"We don't know," she said. "John wasn't with him when it happened. He didn't see anything until it was too late."

"Too late?!" Mrs. Hudson wailed. 

"Oh, god, no, Mrs. Hudson," Mary said, jumping to her feet. "I didn't mean it like that. Please, come sit. He's going to be fine, I'm certain of it." She and John helped the woman into a seat between them. 

"Can I get you anything, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked, reaching across to take her hand. She could only shake her head.

"Have we heard anything from the doctors yet?" Lestrade asked.

"Not yet," John said. "He, um, he'll likely be in surgery for a while. They've got to remove the bullet. If there are complications..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. 

"What was he doing when it happened?" Tom asked. 

"Working a case," was all John said in reply. Tom looked like he wanted to inquire further, but Molly interrupted. 

"Would anyone like a coffee?" she asked, standing. A mixture of murmured answers came her way. "Right, then. I'll just grab a few." She went to the refreshments alcove, leaned against a vending machine, covered her face with her hands, and started to cry. 


	4. Baby, Let's Play House

It was Mrs. Hudson who came to check on Molly. 

"I thought you might like some help with those coffees, dear," she said, giving Molly a sad smile. 

"Yes, thank you," Molly said with a sniffle. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--" 

"I know, dear." Mrs. Hudson inspected the Keurig. "Can you work this thing? I'm afraid it may be a bit modern for this old bird."

"Of course." Molly pulled a Styrofoam cup from the stack, placed a pod in the machine, and started brewing. When it finished, she passed the cup to Mrs. Hudson, who put a lid on it. They repeated this process several times, with Molly making sure to include a couple decaf pods just in case. 

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Hudson, eyeing the cups. "I think we've made too many."

Molly counted. Eight cups of coffee. "I think you're right," she said, and she couldn't help but laugh. "It's all right, I know I could go for two, and I'll bet John wouldn't mind an extra, either."

"You're probably right." 

"Everything all right?" Mary asked, joining them. "Should we make more, then?" She eyed the small army of coffee cups. 

"No," Molly said, cracking a smile, "I think this is about all we can handle before they go cold."

"I'll help you carry them, at least."

"You know," Mrs. Hudson said, staring at the coffee maker, "Frank, my husband, and I, we never had children. It was probably for the best, of course, all things considered. He was a rubbish husband, I doubt he would have made any better of a father. And I don't regret not having children of my own. I had nieces and a nephew to dote on." 

"I've got a couple of nephews myself," Molly chimed in, smiling at the thought of them. 

"But now, my family is so spread out, and I rarely get to see any of them. Ever since the boys moved in, well... I've thought that this must be what it feels like to have sons." She swiped at a tear. "Sherlock, and John, too... well, they're _my_ sons. I can't... oh, girls. I thought I lost him once." She began to tremble, and Molly put an arm around her. 

Mary peeked around the corner into the main waiting area. "Mycroft is here," she said. 

"I'm all right," Mrs. Hudson said, taking a shaky breath and patting Molly's hand. "I'll be fine. Thank you. Now let's see what we can do about juggling these coffees."

The three of them managed to carry all eight coffees, along with several stir sticks, creamer cups, and sweetener packets, back to where Tom and Lestrade were sitting. John and Mycroft were at the check-in desk, and Mycroft was speaking in a low voice to the receptionist. The poor girl looked terrified.

"These two are decaf," Mary said, taking one of the two cups she had indicated. "If anyone else wants one." They started mixing cream and sugar into their cups.

"How late are we staying?" Tom asked, leaning close to Molly so they could converse quietly. 

"I don't know," she said, rolling her coffee cup between her palms. "We haven't even gotten any information from the doctors yet."

"We're supposed to be in Dartford tomorrow by eleven."

"I know."

"Mum made reservations for brunch."

"I know."

"My brother's in from Manchester, and you two still haven't met."

"I _know,_ Tom!" she snapped. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the rest of their group pretending not to have heard. She closed her eyes and took a big gulp of coffee. It burned her throat. "I'm sorry," she whispered. 

"Right. I think I'll just be off, then," he said, standing. "Let me know when you have news."

"Are you going to your flat or mine?" 

"Mine. Beckham could probably use a walk." He leaned down and kissed her cheek, but there was no warmth in the gesture. "I'll be at your flat at eight tomorrow. Please be ready to go."

"I will." With that, Tom gave a curt goodbye to the group, turned, and left. Molly sighed and continued fiddling with her cup, thankful for something to keep her hands occupied. Nobody said anything, and she wished that someone would break the silence. 

Her wish was granted when, after several excruciating minutes, John and Mycroft joined them. 

"As soon as he's out of surgery," John said, "they're going to let Mycroft see him. It will be a while before any of us will be allowed in, though."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Hudson. 

"We're not _family,_ " John scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Are any of these decaf?" Mycroft asked, nodding at the coffees. Mary handed him the remaining decaf, which he sipped from without adding anything to it. "I will keep John informed of Sherlock's status, and I trust that he will pass the information on to the rest of you."

"Do they have any idea how long it will be?" Molly asked, even though she knew the answer. 

"No," Mycroft said. "It could be ten minutes, or it could be ten hours."

"Oh, dear," breathed Mrs. Hudson.

"I've got to be off soon," Lestrade said. "Supposed to be meeting with the wife tomorrow, trying to work some things out."

"I'll text as soon as I know anything," John assured him. 

"Greg," Molly said, "do you think you could drop me off?" 

"I was actually going to ask if you needed a ride," he said, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Mrs. Hudson.

Hugs and handshakes were exchanged, along with more promises to keep everyone informed. Molly collected the coffee cups that were empty and dropped them in the bin on her way out. They were all quiet on the ride to Baker Street. Molly offered to walk Mrs. Hudson in, but she insisted that she would be fine on her own. She said good night and hurried inside, and Molly had a feeling she didn't want them to see her start crying again.

When they pulled up in front of Molly's building, Lestrade put the car in park and turned to face her. "Is everything okay?" he asked. 

"Yeah. I mean, aside from, you know. Sherlock."

"I meant with you and Tom."

"Oh. Of course. Why wouldn't it be?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "He's just a bit stressed. We've got a long drive tomorrow. He's always like this when we go to visit his parents."

"Doesn't get along with them, eh?" 

"No, they get on just fine. It's the traveling that he doesn't like."

"I see." He reached out and took her hand in both of his. "You would tell me, though, right? If something was wrong?" 

"Of course." She gave him a weak smile. "And what about you? Reconciling with Megan?" 

"Nah, not reconciling. Finalizing."

"Oh." She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "It sounded a lot more optimistic in the waiting room."

"Well, it is for the best. And we're actually on fairly good terms in spite of everything. And I think I'm ready to let go."

"I'm glad for you, Greg." She leaned toward him with a little smirk. "You would tell me, though, right? If something was wrong?" He laughed softly. 

"I can't say I've enjoyed the separation, but it's going to be a huge relief once the divorce is done and over with. I'll finally feel like I can move on, you know?"

"I do know." She squeezed his hand, then pulled hers out of his grasp. "Thanks for the ride."

"Any time."

With that, Molly got out of the car and went up to her flat. Toby was waiting for her, and she picked him up and took him to her bedroom. She didn't even bother changing into pyjamas before falling fast asleep. 

* * *

_He's finally woken up. JW_

They were nearly to Dartford when molly finally received the text. She had woken up to a message informing her that Sherlock was out of surgery and stable sometime around one in the morning, but otherwise this was the first news she had received. 

"He's awake," she said. 

"That's good," Tom said. "Mary was right, then. He's going to be fine."

"As fine as you can be after being shot, I guess."

"Yeah, maybe don't mention to my parents that one of your friends got shot."

Molly stared our the window, watching the scenery pass by. Fifteen minutes later, they were parked outside the Taylor home. When they were out of the car, Tom said, "Let's just try to get through today, all right?" Molly hiked her handbag strap farther up onto her shoulder and put on her game face, with big eyes and a tight-lipped smile. 

"Tommy!" exclaimed Georgia Taylor as she threw open the door, coming out to hug her younger son. "Oh, and Molly, yes, hello!"

"Hello!" Molly chirped, returning the older woman's hug.

"I'm so glad you two could make it! It's not too often I get to have both my boys home. Charles! Hugh! Tom and Molly are here!"

Georgia Taylor was a plump woman with blonde hair that was styled into a bob. She was dressed smartly and always smiling. Her husband, Hugh, appeared in the doorway. He hadet his own hair go white, and Molly had always felt that looking at him was like looking into a crystal ball. Tom was the spitting image of his father. 

"Hello!" he said, pulling each of them in for a hug. "Do come in, we've got a bit of time before we have to get going."

Inside, Molly met Tom's brother, Charles, for the first time. His hair was cropped short, but otherwise there was no mistaking his relation to the other Taylor men. 

"Welcome to the family," he said to Molly, pulling her into yet another hug. Molly couldn't remember the last time she had been hugged by so many people in such a short amount of time. It made her feel a bit uneasy.

Later, at brunch, she learned that Charles was a data analyst at a software company in Manchester. His wife, Lucy, had stayed home with their daughter, Katie, because she was eight months pregnant and hadn't felt up to making the trip. "Katie's really looking forward to the wedding, though," Charles said. "It will be her first, and she's so excited to dress up and meet her new Aunt Molly."

"I can't wait to meet her, either," Molly said. "I've got nephews, it will be lovely to have a niece. Maybe two nieces, even. I still can't believe you haven't gotten curious yet."

"Of course we're curious," he said. "But the surprise is part of the fun. I suppose you'll find that out for yourself soon, though."

Molly nearly choked on her water." Oh, um... we're not... I mean, we haven't--"

"We haven't discussed whether or not we'll want to know in advance," Tom finished for her. "But there will plenty of time to discuss that, right, sweetheart?" He put an arm around her shoulders. 

"Yes," she agreed, taking another gulp of water.

After brunch, they spent the afternoon at the house. Georgia brought out her and Hugh's wedding album to show Molly. They looked so happy in the photos. Molly wondered if she had ever looked so happy in her whole life. 

Charles called Lucy on Skype, so Molly got to say hello to her and Katie. The girl was six, and she was going to look adorable in her flower girl dress. Molly told her so, and she blushed and ran away from her mum, giggling.

Dinner was a lovely, rich beef stew with homemade bread. Tom nudged Molly with his elbow. "This here is one thing that I have deep regrets about."

"Your mum's cooking?" 

"No, that our children will miss out on having a mum who could write her own cookbook!"

"You don't cook, Molly?" Charles asked. 

"A bit," she said. 

"Not at all," Tom said at the same time. 

"Well, I _can_ cook," she insisted.

"Would you like to know my secret, dear?" Georgia asked, leaning close to molly. "It's the wine. I don't care much for sherry, so I use red wine instead. Gives it a whole different flavor."

"Red wine? I'll have to remember that."

"In case you ever make a stew," Tom remarked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments! Stay tuned for Chapter Five, when Molly and Sherlock will actually have some screen time together!


	5. Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTES UPDATED** : So, according to John's blog, the wedding took place in August, even though the invitation is shown on screen list the date as May 18th. For the purposes of this fic, the wedding took place in ~~August~~ **May** , and the break-in and shooting take place **four months later** sometime in late September. I can't imagine Mary and John separated for much longer, ~~so~~ **and Sherlock has therefore been "dating" Janine for four months, which does in fact make more sense regarding the proposal. T** his gives us just enough time between that incident and the one that we know happens on Christmas. **I had to retcon my own fic a bit to accommodate Rosie's arrival, but it shouldn't change anything besides backstory and how far along Mary is!**

At five o'clock sharp, Molly closed up the lab, grabbed her things, and headed up to Sherlock's room. John was there when she arrived, and he smiled when he saw her. 

"Speak of the devil," he said, standing up from the chair next to Sherlock's bed. 

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said, turning to look at her. He was sitting up, supported by the adjustable hospital bed. "You've been out of London."

"And you never change," she said, crossing the room to set the potted plant she was carrying on the window ledge.

"I'll give you two some time," John said, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder as he passed her. "Can I get either of you anything?" 

"No, thanks," Molly said.

"Release paperwork," Sherlock said. 

"Yeah, right. I'll see what I can do." John rolled his eyes as he left the room, closing the door behind him. 

"How are you feeling?" Molly asked, taking the seat previously occupied by John. 

"Alive," he said, "and it's all your fault."

"My... my _fault?_ " 

"Yes. You were there. You saved my life. _Again_."

"Sherlock, I wasn't..." Her eyes drifted to his morphine drip. "I wasn't there."

"No, not really. Obviously. But I saw you. In my mind. You told me what to do. How to live. Thank you."

"You're... welcome?" It came out as more of a question than she had intended. She bit her lip, still looking at the morphine drip. "Is that a good idea? I mean, so soon after--" 

"The heroin was for a _case_ ," he snapped, scowling. "I am _not_ relapsing. Every dose was carefully calculated to achieve the desired result."

"Sherlock, I'm the one who ran your test."

"Yes." His expression softened. "I am sorry Molly. You didn't deserve to be treated that way."

"It's okay," she said, a little too quickly. 

" _No_ , Molly, it's _not_ okay," he insisted. He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, Molly thought he might fall asleep. "How was Dartford, anyway?"

"Lovely, as always." She had long ago given up on asking how he had deduced things like that. "The drive was a bit unpleasant, but I suppose that could be said for most long drives."

They hadn't spoken much during the drive back into London. Molly had been silently fuming over Tom's comments at dinner. She spent a good portion of the trip pretending to nap in the passenger seat, which had in turn resulted in a very sore neck.

After stopping at Molly's flat to check on Toby and give him a bit of food, they had gone to Tom's. He had prattled on about the house in Sutton, and she had nodded when it seemed like he was waiting for a reaction before continuing. She had looked at the photos on his mobile, and she had to admit that it did look nice.

Tom had tried to convince her to stay the night, but she had insisted on going home. She was exhausted from the day's travel, and her flat was much closer to Bart's, which would give her a few precious extra minutes of sleep in the morning. 

"All right," he had acquiesced finally. "But I for one can't wait until we both call the same house our home." She had smiled, kissed him good night, and hurried out into the cool night air where she could breathe.

"And how is... Tom, is it?" Sherlock asked, bringing her back to the present. 

"Yes, still Tom. Still not a sociopath." She smiled. "We're going to look at a house tomorrow."

"A house," he mused. "Big step, Molly. You two must be pretty serious."

"Sherlock, we're engaged." Finding a bit of courage she didn't realize she had, she reached out and took his hand. To her utter shock, he squeezed her hand. 

"I'm going to miss you, Molly Hooper," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"The house... it's, um... it's only in Sutton," she protested, trailing off. 

"I may have to leave London sometime in the near future." He stared past her at the window. "Or not. As of right now, I've come up with twenty-seven possible outcomes for this case. Twenty-three if you rule out a few that are, frankly, actually quite ridiculous now that I'm giving them my full attention. Twenty-three, at least half of which result in my extended absence from London." He finally looked at her again, locking eyes with her. "Will Tom keep you safe?" 

"Will he... what?"

"Tell me." He squeezed her hand harder, nearly causing her to cry out. "Tell me that you _trust_ Tom to take care of you and keep you safe, no matter what."

"Of course he will." She blinked back tears. "He's going to be my husband."

"Yes. I meant it, you know. I hope you will be very happy." He released her hand and pressed a button. His bed slowly leaned back so that he could lie down. "You should probably go. Janine will probably be visiting me soon. I suspect she may have some very unpleasant things to say to me, and I would prefer it if you were not present for the scene."

"Janine. She's your, um... your girlfriend?" 

"No." He closed his eyes again, settling into his pillow. "No, I don't think she is anymore."

Molly watched him for several long moments before deciding that he must really be asleep this time. She stood and took a step toward the door, then changed her mind. After a quick glance at the door, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. A tear escaped from her eye, landing in his hairline. She brushed it away, and, with that, she left the hospital room. 

_Worry._

_Apprehension._

_Affection._

Outside, John was waiting, leaning against the wall. He stood up straight when he saw her. "How is he?" he asked. 

"Asleep, I think. What's this about him leaving London?"

"Dunno. He's mentioned it a few times, but he won't give me any specifics. I'm half certain it's just the morphine talking." He crossed his arms and sighed. "But I guess you never know with Sherlock. He has said some pretty bizarre things in the past."

"That's an understatement."

"I don't know how long he's going to be here, in the hospital. Any thoughts on how I can convince him to stay with Mary and me while he's recovering?"

"Sherlock, leave Baker Street? I think you'd have better luck convincing a pigeon to tap dance."

"Yeah, I hear pigeons generally have terrible stage fright." He grinned at her, and she burst into laughter. She quickly covered her mouth and tried to regain her composure.

"Besides," she said, "Mrs. Hudson will be there, and you know she'll never let him have a moment's peace."

"That's true. That's very true."

* * *

She had to admit, the house _was_ perfect. 

"Three bedrooms, though?" she asked Tom as they climbed the stairs again. 

"Sure. I figure we can use one as a guest room, and the other can be an office... for now."

"For now?"

"Yeah." She followed him into the smallest of the bedrooms. "We can put a desk over here, and maybe a bookcase or two along that wall. We don't want anything that can't easily be relocated once the time comes."

"Time? What time?" 

"To turn it into a nursery, of course." He put an arm around her shoulders, then gestured around the room with his other hand. "A fancy cot over there, a changing table there, a nice chair in the corner for you to sit and nurse the baby."

"A nursery. You're thinking awfully far ahead, aren't you?" 

"Molly, how long do you think we'll be married before we start thinking seriously about children?"

"I don't know. It just seems so far off."

"It will come quicker than you think." He kissed her cheek. "We need to be ready. So. What do you think? Do you like the house?" 

"It's a very nice house," she said grudgingly. 

"Fantastic!" He took her hand and led her back downstairs. "We can make an offer tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Wow."

"Yeah. We don't want to miss out on the opportunity to get a house we both love."

"Yeah." She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

Tom spent the whole ride home telling her all about the information they would need to give to the realty company and the paperwork that would need to be filled out. She tried to listen, but it was a bit too much for her to focus on. Instead, she started trying to picture herself in an overstuffed armchair in their nursery. She got as far as imagining herself curled up with a book and a cup of tea by the time they got home.


	6. That's When Your Heartaches Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good News: Smut!  
> Bad News: It's not with Sherlock... yet!

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?!"

Molly had been on her lunch break when John and Lestrade had found her in the canteen.

"No sign of him," Lestrade said, sitting down across the table from her. "No one saw him leave, of course."

"And he's not at Baker Street?"

"Nope," said John. "Mrs. Hudson said she's been home all day and she hasn't heard anyone come or go. She went up and looked for him. He's not there."

"I've got people checking the three bolt holes we know of," said Lestrade. "Molly, do you know of any others? Anywhere he's hidden out before?"

"Well, he has stayed at my flat a couple times."

"Your flat?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Just the spare bedroom," she clarified. "Well, my bedroom." She felt her cheeks go pink. "We agreed he needs the space." She took a drink of coffee, trying hard not to say anything more awkward.

"Sherlock has slept over with you?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"Only twice. And not... never like that. Just the night after... after The Fall. And once about a month ago." She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide.

"Molly?"

"Don't tell Tom," she whispered. "It was about a week or so after your wedding, John. He just... just showed up one night, insisting that he couldn't get any sleep at Baker Street and had nowhere else to go. So I let him stay over. He was already gone when I woke up."

"And Tom isn't exactly happy with that?"

"He doesn't know. He's, um... a bit jealous of Sherlock. It's a sore subject between us."

"I see." Lestrade picked up his mobile. "Do you mind if we send someone round your flat? Just to check?"

"Not at all. I can, um... my neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Tilbury, she has a key. Sometimes she feeds my cat when I'm away. I can phone her, let her know someone is coming."

"Thanks, that would be helpful. Bloody landlords always want you to have a warrant." He dialed a number and stood, walking a short distance from the table.

"Thanks, Molly," John said, giving her a weak smile.

"He won't be there," she said, swirling her coffee around in its disposable cup. "Too obvious. I don't know what he's hiding from, but... I don't think he'll go somewhere you might find him."

"You don't think he wants me to find him?"

"Well, I think he's probably hiding from the person who shot him, you know? And maybe he's worried they'll follow _you_ to get to _him_."

"I hadn't thought of that." John ran a hand across his short hair. "But I have to try."

"I know you do. Keep me in the loop."

"Yeah, will do. I've gotta..." He gestured toward Greg, who was pacing and slowly working his way toward the door.

"Of course." He gave her a small wave, and then the two men left. She picked up the remains of her lunch and tossed them into a bin, then headed back toward the morgue. As she walked, she phoned Mrs. Tilbury and filled her in.

She didn't have a spare bedroom. She wasn't sure why she had lied about that.

When Sherlock had stayed with her the night after his "death," he had been pretty banged up and exhausted. After a brief debate, she had insisted that he use her bed and that she would take the sofa. It wouldn't make sense she had said, for him to try and squeeze his six-foot frame onto her tiny sofa, especially in his condition. Eventually, he had acquiesced, and she and Toby had taken the couch.

The second time he had stayed with her, he had avoided giving her any real explanation.

"Molly," he had said when she had answered the door, "I need to use your bed."

"What?"

"Someone is looking for me at Baker Street. Therefore, I need to sleep here."

"Criminals are chasing you, and you came here?"

"What? No! No, no criminals." He had smiled at her. "May I come in? I brought crisps." He had reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and crinkled the bag for emphasis.

Of course she had let him in. They had stayed up watching late night telly and chatting. She had tried to pry his real reasons for this bizarre visit out of him, but he had remained cryptic as ever. Sometime during the night, she had fallen asleep on the sofa. She had woken up the next morning under a blanket, and Sherlock had already been gone.

Before putting her phone away, she sent a quick text to Sherlock.

_I know you won't tell me where you are. Just tell me you're okay. MH_

* * *

Hours later, as she was getting ready for bed, the response finally came.

_Back in hospital. Probably should stay longer this time. SH_

She laughed a little at his ridiculous understatement.

_Good. I'll come visit later this week. MH_

She plugged the charger into her mobile, tied her hair into a low ponytail, then climbed into Tom's bed. A moment later, he came into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. "Hey, babe," he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Hey yourself," she replied. Soon, he joined her in bed, clad only in boxers and a T-shirt.

"When's the last time I told you how beautiful you are?"

"Um... John and Mary's wedding, I think."

"What? No." He put an arm around her, nuzzling his face against her hair. "No way it was that long."

"Yeah, pretty sure."

"Then I'm a bloody idiot." He kissed her check, then the corner of her mouth. "Because you, Molly Hooper, are the most stunning woman I have ever seen."

"Is that so?" She pressed her lips together in a shy smile.

"Yeah." He cupped her cheek and kissed her, his arm tightening around her shoulders. She leaned into the kiss, and before long he had her out of her nightgown. As he trailed hot kisses from one of her breasts to the other, he took her hand and guided it to his member.

"Touch it," he whispered. She obliged, hoping that the favour would be returned later. He groaned against her sternum, his fingers pressing into her ribs. She took her hand away long enough to lick her palm, then returned to business. He rolled onto his back and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You like that?" she asked, gazing down at him, cheeky grin on her face.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I know what I'd like more."

"What's that?" In response, he pushed on her shoulder, nudging her closer to his groin. She settled herself between his knees and took him into her mouth. He gave a grunt of appreciation and wrapped her ponytail around his hand. As she worked him, he squirmed and panted, mumbling her name over and over. Soon, he used her hair to gently pull her back.

"Come here," he said, breathing hard. She slid up his body and moved to kiss him, but he turned his face away, so her lips ended up pressed against his jaw. He put his arms around her and rolled the two of them so that he was on top.

"Do I get a special treat, too?" she asked, biting her lower lip.

"Of course you do." With that, he reached down and, after a couple adjustments, guided himself into her. He started with gentle thrusts, but it didn't take long before they became quicker and more erratic. Within two minutes, he pulled out and sprayed his climax onto her belly.

Tom pulled a flannel from his nightstand drawer and cleaned Molly up. She bit the inside of her cheek as she watched him toss the cloth into the laundry basket. It wasn't exactly that she hadn't finished that bothered her. After all, it was silly to expect to finish every time.

"How's that for a treat, then?" he asked, beaming at her. All she could do was smile back. He seemed to take this to mean he had left her speechless, and he kissed her forehead before reaching over and turning off the beside lamp.

She just wished he would have _tried_ a little, is all.


	7. Mystery Train

Molly had planned a bridal party lunch for that Sunday afternoon. Mary never showed up.

"It's not like her to not answer," Molly said after leaving a third voicemail. 

"Maybe John whisked her away for a romantic weekend," Meena offered, but Molly could tell she didn't believe it. 

"That's probably it," Judy agreed, just as half heartedly. 

They tried not to worry too much over lunch, and they planned a day the following month to start looking for a dress, and Molly penciled it into her diary. 

"Have you thought about a mermaid gown?" Judy asked, pulling a bridal magazine from her handbag. "I think this one would look incredible on you." They spent the next half hour poring over the magazine and a few Pinterest boards in search of the perfect dress. When they were done, Molly still had no idea what she wanted. 

"That's all right," Judy said. "It's hard to tell when all you've done is look at pictures. A girl always knows when she's found the right one."

"Yeah," Molly said, sliding the diary back into her bag. "I can't wait to try some on. Once I hear back from Mary, I'll make the appointment."  

After she parted ways with Meena and Judy, she took the tube out to John and Mary's house. The car was in the driveway and the lights were on, so she walked up and knocked. She could hear movement inside, but it was several minutes before the door swung open to reveal a very rough looking Mary. 

"Oh. Molly." Mary rubbed her red eyes. "I meant to ring you back."

"Nevermind that. What's wrong?" 

"Long story." Mary had a blanket draped over her shoulders, and she wrapped it tighter around herself. "Come in. I'll put the kettle on."

Molly ended up making the tea, insisting that she didn't mind and would feel better if Mary sat. As Molly busied herself with the kettle, Mary said," John left me."

"What?!" Molly nearly tripped over her own feet. 

"Yeah. He's gone."

"Oh, Mary." Molly came to sit next to her friend, putting an arm around her. "What happened?" 

"So much." Mary produced a tissue from under her blanket and blew her nose. "Oh, Molly. There's so much I can't tell you."

"Does it have to to with Sherlock's top secret case?" 

Mary hesitated before answering. "In a way, yes."

"You don't have to tell me anything. I just need to know that you and the baby are all right."

"The baby. Oh, god, Molly. What am I going to do if he never comes back?"

"Well, of course he'll come back. Obviously he's being a bloody idiot."

"No." Mary sniffled and wiped her nose with the tissue. "No, he's perfectly justified. I wish I could tell you more. About my past, ago I was before."

"You've run away from something."

"Yes."

Molly didn't press the issue, but she did wonder what was troubling her friend so. An abusive ex husband? A criminal past? A cult? So many possibilities ran through her head, but he she held them back. Prying wouldn't help. 

"And he found something out about your past. Something bad."

"Exactly."

The kettle whistled, and Molly got up to finish the tea. When she returned with two cups of tea, Mary accepted hers gratefully. The two women drank in silence for a while. Finally, Molly said, "He'll come around. He loves you."

"He loved who he thought I was."

 "Have you been dishonest with him about who you are?" Molly ran her finger along the rim of her teacup. "Not who you were. Who you _are._ "

"No. Other than some fibbing-- well, quite a lot of fibbing, actually-- about my past, I've been totally up front with him. Mostly. Oh, it's so complicated." She wiped at her eyes. "I love him. I've never lied about that."

"He loves you, too. I know he does."

"Not for long."

"Well, I don't know what's going on, but I know a little bit about John. He wants to see the good in people. I'm sure he's just been thrown for a loop. But you know who else did that? Sherlock."

"That's true." Mary nodded, considering her friend's words. 

"It took him a while, didn't it? But he forgave Sherlock, in his own time."

"Well, Sherlock never killed anyone, did he?" Mary gasped, realizing what she had just let slip, and Molly's breath caught in her throat. The two women just stared at each other for a long moment.

Finally, Molly asked, "Did they deserve it?" 

"Yes."

"That's all I need to know." Molly put her arms around Mary and held her while she wept. 

* * *

Molly stayed with Mary well into the evening. They ordered in takeaway and watched an obscenely gory horror movie (Mary insisted that it was her "comfort genre"). After extracting a promise to call the next day, Molly headed home.

When she arrived at her flat, she was surprised to find a single red rose on her doorstep. The rose lay on an envelope, which she picked up and opened.

_Molly,_

_Come over after work tomorrow. I expect to have wonderful news._

_Love,_   _Tom_

Her heart flip flopped. She suspected that his good news had something to do with the house in Sutton. Smiling, she brought the flower to her nose as she dug in her bag for her keys. The more she thought about it, the sillier she felt for being so apprehensive about moving. After all, Tom was right. Did she expect to keep separate flats after the wedding? In the grand scheme of things, was a longer commute to work really so bad?

She opened her door and was met by one very annoyed tabby.

"I know, I know," she said, dropping her bag on the chair. "I should have been home to feed you _hours_ ago. I'm so proud of you for surviving so long on your own!" She bent down and picked Toby up, heading to the kitchen with the cat in one arm and the rose in the other hand. She placed Toby by his bowl and set the rose on the counter while she got out a tin of cat food. Once Toby was contentedly stuffing his face, Molly put the rose in a glass of water.

She poured herself a glass of wine, went to her bedroom, and grabbed her laptop. Settling onto the sofa, she started browsing interior decorating websites. She went from room to room, focusing for a while on bedrooms, then baths, and so on. When she got to nurseries, she hesitated. She went to the kitchen and brought the bottle of wine to the sofa with her.

 In the morning, she overslept, missed her train, and got to work over an hour late.


	8. One Night

Just shy of seven, Molly let herself into Tom's flat. Beckham met her at the door, dancing in circles. 

"Hey, boy," she said, crouching down to scratch him behind his ears. He licked her face, and she giggled. 

"Dinner's almost ready," Tom called from the kitchen. "I've already set the table."

Molly went to the kitchen with Beckham close on her heels. The small table was set, and he had even gone so far as to include a tablecloth and a candle. As she took a seat, Beckham went to sit and beg at Tom's feet. 

"You said you might have good news?" she said, hooking her handbag on the back of her chair. 

"I do have good news." He took the pan off the burner and started filling plates. "But let's eat first, shall we?" He brought the food to the table and sat across from her. Dinner was an excellent chicken and wild rice dish, and Molly was a bit surprised to see that he had not set out wine, only water glasses. 

"What kept you so late at work?" he asked, nudging Beckham away from the table with his foot. "I thought you'd be here sooner, since Stamford canceled class for tonight."

"I overslept this morning. I had to stay nearly an extra hour to finish up all my paperwork from today."

"Overslept? That's not like you."

"I know. I was up late looking at nursery layouts online."

"Really?" His eyes lit up. "So I guess the idea isn't so overwhelming anymore, then?" 

"No, not really. You're right. It won't hurt to start planning."

"I'm so glad to hear that." He launched into a long story about his day at the office. They ate while he chattered on, and Molly was in the middle of contemplating whether or not she wanted seconds when he said, "Which brings me to the good news."

Tom stood and came around to her side of the table. He lowered himself to one knee and fished around in his pocket. Molly watched him, smiling but perplexed. Hadn't they already done this? 

"Molly Grace Hooper," he said, pulling a small box from his pocket, "will you move in with me?" 

Inside the box was a key. Molly gasped. 

"We got the house? Already?"

"Well, there's still a lot of paperwork to process. But being a realtor has its perks, and I should be able to expedite everything. If all goes according to plan, we should be able to move in within a month."

"Oh my God." She felt tears prick at her eyes. 

"So, is that a yes?"

"Yes, of course!" She took the box and peered at the key. On closer inspection, it was a blank. She assumed that it would be cut for the lock on the new house once they were ready to move in. She also saw that the word "HOME" had been carved into the top of they key. 

Tom stood and kissed the top of her head. "Well, then. I guess we should start packing, soon, don't you think?" 

* * *

One month later, Molly stood in her living room, regarding the cardboard jungle around her. Most of her belongings were packed and sorted, and ready to go. She had posted on Facebook asking for help moving house, and she was surprised at the response. Meena had been the first to volunteer, of course, and said she would bring her brother, Vihaan. Lestrade said he and Anderson were both free and willing to help. Mary had texted her regrets, as she was still giving John his space. John had offered to drive the moving van she had rented. Tom would be unable to help, as he was moving at the same time, so he and his mates would be meeting up with them at the new house. 

She was drinking wine from a paper cup. Tom had, of course, asked her to stay the night with him, but she had insisted that she and Toby needed to have one last night in the flat they had shared for nearly four years. They needed closure, she had said.  So here she was, alone with her cat and a bottle of wine and a paper cup. Was this what most people did the night before moving? 

She picked her Kindle up off the side table and curled up on the sofa. She was about a quarter of the way into a novel about a journalist investigating the death of a reclusive filmmaker's daughter, and even though the premise seemed a bit hokey, she was really getting into it.

About two chapters later, she was startled by a knock at the door. She glanced at the time. It was 11:30 on a Saturday night. Who on earth would be knocking on her door? 

She stared at the door for a long moment, hesitant to answer. It occurred to her that perhaps Tom had forgotten his key, or maybe Mary or one of her other friends had decided on a whim to stop by. Setting her Kindle down slowly, she got up and took a step toward the door. Then her phone rang.

She pulled the phone from her pocket and stared at the screen. Sherlock was calling her. With a sigh, she answered,  _really_ hoping he didn't need her for a late night autopsy. 

"Hello?"

"Why aren't you answering your door?"

"That's you?" She crossed the room and unlocked the door. 

"Of course it's me." She opened the door in time to see him hang up and slide the phone into his pocket. "Were you expecting someone else? At this time of night?" He glanced around the room, then squinted at her. "No, you're not expecting anyone, not with the flat looking like this."

"I'm moving house tomorrow, Sherlock," she said. "I thought you knew."

"Of course I knew." He bustled past her and wandered through the maze of boxes. He picked up a small box and shook it gently. "Cutlery?" 

"Yes, my cutlery is in that box." She closed and locked the door. "What are you doing here, anyway?" 

"I thought I'd come pay my respects to your old flat. We've had some good times here, haven't we?"

"You've been here all of three times now, and since when are you one to get sentimental?"

"You got me there." He gave the box another small shake, then set it back down. "I dislike change. I tolerate it when necessary, but I would much prefer it if the constants in my life  _remained_ constant." He removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the rack by the door. "When I returned to London, I expected everything to be just as I'd left it. John at Baker Street playing mind numbingly  _boring_ games of Cluedo with Mrs. Hudson, you spending all day in the lab and then going on dates with mind numbingly  _boring_ men, Gavin and the rest of the Yard bumbling through mind numbingly  _boring_ cases without my help."

"Gavin?" She blinked. "You mean Greg?" 

"Isn't that what I said?" He began to pace. "So, you can imagine my surprise when I saw that you all had moved on without me. Your worlds just kept on turning. That's a very difficult thing for a self centered arse like me to accept." He smiled, but it was a sad smile.

"Two years is a long time, Sherlock." She returned to her seat on the sofa, pulling her legs up and hooking her elbows around her knees. Glancing down, she remembered that she was wearing an old Cambridge T-shirt and pink pyjama bottoms with cupcakes on them. She blushed, realizing how ridiculous she must look. 

"It's all right," he said, watching her. "They're actually quite fetching." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you know  _why_ I found The Woman so fascinating?" 

"The Woman?"

"Irene Adler."

"Oh." Molly remembered Ms. Not-Her-Face, and her blush spread all the way to her ears. "Well, I suppose I could wager a guess." She picked up her cup and gulped down a mouthful of wine. 

He rolled his eyes. "Please, Molly, do be serious. If all it took to hold my attention was an attractive woman, I would have gone to bed with  _you_ years ago. No, what captured my interest was that she was a  _puzzle_ . The problem with puzzles, though, is, once you solve them, they are of no further use. And she  _knew_ she was a puzzle. She was so  _eager_  to be solved. It was all too easy in the end, too  _obvious_ ."

Molly had heard everything he had said, but she was still stuck on the part where he had said, in a roundabout way, that he thought she was attractive. She gave her head a small shake. He probably hadn't realized what he had implied. 

"Do you know what I find most interesting about  _you,_ Molly?" he asked, finally sitting next to her, resting his arm across the back of the sofa. 

"I guess, um... body parts?" she stammered. "Not mine. From the, uh, morgue?"

"Did you know I've read every one of your research papers?"

"What?"

"I had some time while I was recovering." His hand went to his chest in what she suspected was an unconscious gesture. "As it turns out, Molly, in spite of your awful taste in both men and humour, you are brilliant."

"I'm not," she protested softly.

"No, but you  _are,_ " he insisted, taking her hand and scooting closer to her. "And yet you don't show it off or even seem to acknowledge it. It's all hidden away under your mild manners and terrible jumpers. You surprise me, Molly. You're a puzzle, too, and it's taken me too long to even realize it."

"I'm an open book, Sherlock." She stared at their joined hands, the place where his knee pressed against her ankle. "My heart has always been on my sleeve, and you know it."

"Yes, but that's just it. The heart is the hardest piece of the puzzle for me."

"Why did you come here?" she asked, daring to look up at him. His face was so close to hers that it made her dizzy.

"I'm most likely going to be leaving London soon," he said.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You don't even know how intriguing you are, do you?"

"I'm just me."

Without warning, he kissed her. Not a chaste peck on the cheek, as he had given her twice before. No, he kissed her like he wanted to dive into her, air and breathing be damned. One of his hands twined into her hair, and the fingers of the other clasped her shoulder. His tongue was like silk against hers, and she flailed for something to hold onto. Her hands sunk into his curls, and she wondered if she hadn't fallen asleep reading and landed in a dream.

And then it was over. He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment, then slowly took her wrists between his fingers, lowering her hands to her lap. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he got to his feet without saying a thing.

She gaped at him, breathless, boneless, and wordless. He put his coat and scarf back on, then turned back to look at her. He gave her that sad smile once more, and then he was gone. She sat there staring at the door for several minutes after he left. 

"What. The.  _Fuck?_ " she whispered into the sudden silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Molly is reading is "Night Film" by Marisha Pessl.


	9. Just Pretend

"Molly? Earth to Molly!" Meena waved her hand in front of her friend's face. "Oh, good, you're back."

"Sorry," Molly said, shaking her head.

"Moving day jitters, eh?" Anderson asked, hefting a box of books. Molly blinked at him. She wasn't sure she would ever get used to seeing him with a beard. 

"Yeah." She rubbed her face and stretched. "Sorry, everyone. Didn't sleep well last night."

After Sherlock's abrupt departure the night before, Molly had been completely unable to sleep. She had sat up for hours replaying the scene in her head. What the hell had he said? That she was a puzzle? She didn't _feel_ like a puzzle. She felt like a silly little girl blindly stumbling through her own life while everyone else around her had it all figured out.

And here she was, finally on the golden road to the perfect life, and suddenly _he_ had to come along and... what? Screw it up? Throw her off course? Make her question everything?

_Confusion._

_Bewilderment._

_Fluster._

Honestly, she still wasn't entirely sure she hadn't dreamed the whole thing. But if it had been a dream, how could she still smell his cologne on her Cambridge shirt? Surely that wasn't her imagination.

The van was nearly loaded. Even more people had shown up to help than she had originally expected. Sally Donovan had tagged along with Lestrade and Anderson, and Molly's cousin Caroline had brought her two teenage sons. It hadn't taken long at all to get all of Molly's possessions out of the flat. Moving had always made her a bit sad. It never failed to amaze her how easily all traces of a person's life could be emptied out of the space that was once called home. 

She still had about a week left on her lease, and those days would be spent scrubbing up and hoping that she got her cleaning deposit back. Toby had never caused any damage to the flat, thankfully, and neither had she, so she expected a full refund. Meena and Mary had volunteered to help her on Wednesday, since Mary's date nights had been postponed indefinitely.

"I think this is all that's left," Caroline said, gesturing to the six or seven small boxes stacked outside the kitchen. "All the other rooms are cleared out. How do you think Toby will get on with Tom's dog?" 

Molly bent and picked up Toby's carrier. He had spent most of the day inside to prevent him from escaping or being stepped on, and he wasn't too happy about it. She poked her finger in through the gate, trying to scratch his cheek, but he ignored her. 

"Hopefully all right," she said, making a pouty face at the cat. "We never got a chance to properly introduce them. We kept meaning to, but the time just always seems to get away from us."

"Isn't that the truth! Just wait until you've got kids. You'll have to try and cram at least thirty six hours into a day, every day, and it never stops."

Molly went a little pale. Caroline didn't notice because her boys had just come in and she was instructing them to be careful with Molly's boxes of dishes. She followed them out, leaving Molly alone with Toby and the last three boxes.

John came in and said, "Well, I guess it's just about time to go." He stopped when he looked at her. "You all right?" 

"Yeah." She forced a smile. "Just a little overwhelmed is all."

"Yeah. I felt the same way when I moved out of Baker Street." He frowned suddenly, then shook his head. "I have to ask, though. Didn't you say you had a spare bedroom?"

"Um." Molly switched the cat carrier from one hand to the other. "Yeah, I don't know why I said that. I panicked. I didn't want you guys to think, well, you know."

"Molly, we all know Sherlock." He grinned at her. "If he wants to kick you out of your own bedroom, he's damn well going to get his way. He's certainly done it to me a few times. Anyway, speaking of Sherlock, sorry he couldn't make it today. I thought for sure he'd come, but I haven't seen or heard from him all day."

"It's okay. I wasn't really expecting him. I can't picture him loading boxes into a van." She gazed around the room at the furniture she had been using for so long that it felt like her own.

Fortunately, Tom had managed to negotiate a few of the seller's items into the sale, so they wouldn't be completely without furniture. It wasn't much, just a bed, a wardrobe, a sofa and chair for the living room, and a decade old refrigerator. Molly had also asked around at Bart's and found someone willing to part with a kitchen table and chairs cheap, as he and his wife were looking to purchase a larger set. She had browsed a bit on Craigslist, too, but she hadn't been comfortable contacting strangers on her own.

"Are we just about ready?" Vihaan asked, coming back in.

"Yeah," Molly said. "It's just these three boxes now."

Vihaan and John split up the boxes, and Molly carried Toby. She rode in the van with John, cat carrier perched on her lap.

"You've got one hell of a commute to Bart's now," John commented about fifteen minutes into the trip. 

"Yeah. It's going to take some getting used to. But I've already started loading my mobile up with podcasts and audiobooks."

"That should help the time go by faster." He continued making small talk, and Molly suspected that he wanted to lead the conversation in order to keep her from asking about Mary. 

Even John Watson couldn't talk forever, though. Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation. Molly took a breath and said, "She misses you terribly, you know."

"Who's that?" he asked, even though they both knew he was only feigning ignorance. She didn't miss his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. 

"You know who." She fiddled with the handle on Toby's carrier. 

"Yeah, well. That's not my problem." He kept his eyes on the road, his jaw stubbornly set.

"Isn't it?" she asked. "She's your wife. She's carrying your child."

"Plenty of kids grow up with divorced parents."

"John."

"Can we talk about something else, please?" His voice broke a little on the last word, and Molly decided not to push it.

"You are still coming to the wedding, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Just don't take it personally if I end up sitting on Tom's side of the church."

* * *

By noon, Molly was completely moved in. Tom and his mates still hadn't arrived. They had gotten a late start, he'd said, after having stayed too late at the pub the night before. It was all well and good, as far as Molly was concerned. She could get a head start on setting things up the way she wanted. 

Not everyone had come along to the house. Caroline and the boys had left with a promise to come round once she and Tom were settled in. Sgt. Donovan had things to take care of at home, and Anderson had caught a ride home with her. Even down a few helpers, though, it didn't take long to move everything in and start unpacking. Once they had the kitchen nearly complete, Molly had called and ordered takeaway. Meena and Vihaan had offered to go pick up some drinks, and Molly had given them some money to do so. 

At one in the afternoon, they were all seated, either on the living room furniture or on the floor, enjoying pizza and their preferred drinks: beer for the men, red wine for Molly and Meena.

"So, is Tom bringing the rest of the furniture?" Lestrade asked. 

"A few things," Molly said, refilling her wine glass. "Mostly things for the office, and a couple side tables."

"Have you looked on Craigslist?" Vihaan asked. "People usually list a really high asking price, but I think that might just be to give them room to haggle."

"I've looked a bit, but I don't know how safe I'd feel meeting up with a stranger to buy something."

"I could go with you," Lestrade offered. "Mostly, normal people are on there selling things, but you're right to be cautious. There are always weirdos out there." 

"I would appreciate that, Greg. I did see a lovely bookcase on there a couple days ago."

A knock at the door almost made her spill her wine. She hopped up and went to answer the door. Two of Tom's mates, Andrew and Noah, greeted Molly. "I guess we beat him here," Noah said. 

"Yeah, but he's probably right behind us," Andrew said. 

"Gotta go slow in the van," John said. "Wouldn't want anything to fall and break."

"Yeah." Andrew craned his neck, looking at each face in the room. "Is this everybody? Everyone who helped you move?" 

"Well, my cousin and her two sons came to help, and--"

"He's just hoping to meet _Sherlock,_ " Noah explained, rolling his eyes. "He's had a crush on him ever since all the business with Moriarty. You should have seen him when the news broke that he's back."

"Well, if _you_ had any appreciation for the male form, you would, too!" Andrew retorted. "Molly knows what I mean, don't you? Didn't you have a crush on him a while back?" 

Molly downed the remainder of her glass of wine. 

* * *

"Bye!" Molly called, waving. It was four in the afternoon, and everything had been moved in and settled. "We'll let you all know when there's a date for the housewarming!" 

When the last of the cars had driven off, she closed the door and turned to Tom.

"So," he said, "what do you think, now that we're just about settled in?" 

"I think we made a good move." She crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist. "So, what do you want to do now?" 

"I've got a few ideas," he said, bending down to kiss her behind the ear. 

"Ah... I thought we could, um, go explore the neighbourhood?" She tried to concentrate on her own words, but she found it increasingly difficult as his lips slid down to her collarbone. 

"We could explore right here," he murmured. Then he stopped and looked at her. "Why do you smell like men's cologne?" 

"I think it's Andrew's," she said, surprising herself with how quickly the fib rolled off her tongue. "He doesn't have much of a personal space bubble, does he?" 

"No, that's true. He was hovering a bit when you two were unpacking your books."

"Someone should tell him that Hugo Boss is not a replacement for bathing."

"Maybe that's why he's been single for two years." Tom ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom. "Here I thought I might have to fight someone for your affections."

"I think he was more interested in Vihaan's affections. Maybe we could set them up. I don't think Vihaan is seeing anybody right now, and maybe--" 

"Molly. You're rambling again."

"Sorry."

"I might forgive you." He grinned, then kissed her. "I think we should go explore upstairs."

"Yeah? What do you think you might find?" 

He pressed a hand to her cheek. "Precious treasure, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of exposition here, but further updates should move along to the interesting bits more quickly. Thanks for sticking with me!


	10. Let's Have a Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went on for so long that it became three chapters by the time I was done with it!

Molly swore as the oil popped against her skin. She switched the spatula to her left hand and tried to shake the pain out of her right. The beef wasn't browning evenly, and she had no idea how to fix it.

She heard the front door open. A moment later, Beckham trotted into the kitchen and sat at her feet. "Move," she said, "unless you want to get burned, too."

"What are you doing?" Tom asked, striding into the room and hanging Beckham's leash on its hook near the door.

"Browning the meat," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes, but why? I thought I would be making the dinner tonight." He scanned the ingredients arranged on the kitchen counter. "Red wine?"

"I thought I would try your mum's stew recipe. Could you hand me the broth?"

"You haven't even chopped the vegetables." He picked up the carton of broth and handed it to her.

"The recipe she sent me said to add them later." She frowned, pouring the broth over the meat. "I thought I could work on them while it's simmering."

"I guess that's one way of doing it." He opened the refrigerator and helped himself to a bottle of water. "You're sure you don't want me to take over?"

"I've got this. You go get cleaned up. People should start arriving in about an hour."

Two weeks had passed since they had moved into the new house in Sutton. It was starting to look and feel like home. Her acquaintance from Bart's had brought over the dining room set, and despite a few stains and nicks in the surface, it was in great condition. She had gotten her cleaning deposit back from her flat after all, and she had used some of the money on a tablecloth to cover the imperfections on the used dining table for the evening. With Lestrade's help, she had also managed to acquire several extra folding chairs that she had found on Craigslist, along with a few other odds and ends for the house. The table looked a bit silly with twelve chairs crowded around it, but she didn't think anyone would mind an especially cozy dinner. As long as all of the guests were right-handed, at least.

She measured some spices and tossed them into the soon-to-be stew. When the broth started to boil, she lowered the heat and put the lid on the pot. She poured some red wine into the pot, poured a glass for herself, then set to work chopping vegetables. It proved to be a more daunting task than she had originally expected. The chefs on the telly made it look a lot quicker and easier than it really was. She was still chopping when Tom returned to the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed in trousers and a navy blue shirt.

"Oh, good," she said, setting down the knife. "Can you add these in? I've got to go get changed. We've got half an hour before people start arriving."

"Sure," he said, one eyebrow raised, evaluating her chopping skills with his gaze. 

"Thanks." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then turned and left the kitchen. She bounded up the stairs to the bedroom and opened her wardrobe. After some consideration, she pulled out the red dress. It was probably too fancy for a mere housewarming dinner, but she had been itching to wear it  _somewhere_. It occurred to her that she never had gotten around to showing it to Tom.

Ten minutes later, she was applying lipstick in the en suite. She added a little mascara, but decided to stop there. Her hair had been in a French plait since the morning, and she unbraided it, letting it fall over her shoulders in soft, irregular waves. Returning to the bedroom, she selected a pair of chandelier earrings from her jewellery box. She considered wearing the same red heels she had worn to that awful Christmas party years ago, but upon closer inspection she saw that the shades of red did not match. Instead, she stepped into the only other pair of heels she owned, black and white peep toe pumps with a strap across the top. After a moment's hesitation. she put on a thin black cardigan. Feeling a bit more confident, she picked up her mobile and headed back downstairs.

"Did you buy bread?" Tom asked as she walked into the kitchen.

"What? Damn it!" Her brow furrowed. "I knew I was forgetting something!"

"It's all right," he said, taking the lid off the pot and giving its contents a stir. "Maybe we'll get lucky and someone will bring some."

The doorbell sounded, and Beckham ran to investigate. Molly followed him out and answered the door. Meena beamed at her from behind a large orange gift bag. "You're wearing the dress!" she exclaimed.

"What, this old thing?" Molly returned her friend's smile and stepped aside to let her in. Meena set the bag down on a side table and turned to appraise Molly's outfit.

"I'd scold you for the cardigan, but I appreciate that you didn't want to show the rest of us up." She looked Molly up and down. "But you get extra points for the shoes. Those are adorable."

"Thanks. You look lovely yourself." Outside, Molly watched as another car pulled up. Noah got out of the car, followed by his girlfriend, Gianna, who Molly had heard about but not yet met.

Soon, nearly all of the guests had arrived. Fortunately, Judy and her husband, Jake, had brought a large French baguette. Several people had brought bottles of wine, Gianna had brought a cake, and a few more small gifts were placed on the side table nearest the front door.

It was immediately apparent that seating would indeed be an issue. While the empty chairs fit around the table just fine, squeezing people into them proved to be a challenge.

"I don't mind standing," Andrew volunteered. Judy and Jake shared their agreement, and Molly sighed in defeat.

"It's no big deal," Judy said. "You've got too many friends is all, that's a pretty good problem to have."

"Well said," Gianna chimed in. "We can make it work."

The doorbell chimed again, and Molly went to answer it. John smiled and handed her yet another bottle of wine. "Hello, Molly!" he said, giving her a quick hug.

"Thanks for coming," she said.

"Sherlock's still in the car," he said, glancing over his shoulder.

"Sherlock's here?"

"Yeah. He's on his phone. Texting, I think. He'll be in eventually. Hopefully in time for dinner. You look great, by the way."

Once all of the guests, save Sherlock, had assembled in the kitchen, Molly began serving the stew, making a decision to join her standing guests. Tom poured the wine, and everyone immersed themselves in food and conversation.

Molly had only taken three bites when she heard the front door open. A moment later, Sherlock entered the kitchen, carrying a small box wrapped clumsily in grey paper. "John said this was a gift sort of occasion," he said by way of greeting, holding the box up.

"The table by the front door," Molly told him, pointing with her fork. He turned, a bit awkwardly, and disappeared back into the living room. Molly set her plate on the counter and quickly fixed a plate for Sherlock.

"Thank you," he said, once he had returned and accepted the plate. He looked from the table to the group of standing guests, then back.

"You can sit or stand," Tom said, gesturing to the only remaining open seat. Sherlock looked at John for help, but John merely shrugged.

"Up to you, mate," he said before returning to his conversation with Lestrade. Sherlock made a decision and sat himself at the table between Meena and Lestrade.

"So," Gianna asked, looking at Molly, "how did you two meet?"

"Through friends," Molly replied.

"It was a bit of a six degrees sort of thing," Tom said. "Noah and I used to be flatmates. Noah and Andrew were friends at uni. Andrew and Jake both work at Middlesex. Jake's wife, Judy, is a nurse practitioner at Bart's, where Molly works."

"That  _is_  complicated," Gianna said, laughing.

"We all ended up at the same pub one night," Molly added, "and eventually we ended up here."

"That's lovely." Gianna ran a hand through her dark pixie cut. "Noah and I met online."

"Really?" Judy cocked her head. "Does that actually work?"

Molly looked around the room as her and Tom's friends mingled. Her gaze landed on Sherlock. She realized that, in all the years she had known him, she had never seen Sherlock eat a proper meal. He was focused on his food, probably in an attempt to block out what was surely, to him, the dullest conversation ever. At least he seemed to be enjoying her stew, she thought with a small smile.

"Molly," Lestrade said, "I've got to say, this stew is fantastic. If there are any leftovers tonight,  I'd be happy to take them off your hands."

"Thank you, Greg." She smiled. "It's Tom's mum's recipe."

"Well, it's not exactly like mum's, is it?" Tom said. "I mean, it's all right, but you know how it is. Nothing ever compares to mum's cooking, you know?"

"Yeah." Greg pursed his lips, but he didn't say anything else. A quiet fell over the room as people began to finish their meals and put down their forks on empty plates.

"Why don't we cut the cake?" Noah asked, nudging Gianna. Molly and Gianna busied themselves cutting and serving the cake.

As she set dessert plates down on the table, Molly noticed that Sherlock was staring at Tom, who had gone back to his conversation with Andrew and Jake. Tom was either oblivious or really good at ignoring him. She wasn't sure what Sherlock was thinking about, but if she had to wager a guess, it would be that he was deducing something. Honestly, she was pretty astonished that he had remained so quiet for so long. Usually, the larger the crowd, the more likely it was that he would feel the need to show off. For once it seemed that he was content to sit back and observe. She just hoped he didn't have some sort of game in mind, the kind that tended to result in at least one devastated victim of his deductions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly's adorable shoes are Starlet by Carlos Santana, in case anyone is curious.


	11. Don't Be Cruel

"Let's play a game," Jake suggested. The party had moved into the living room. Tom had lit the fireplace, and Molly had brought in bottles of wine and brandy. A few of the folding chairs had been brought in as well, so everyone had somewhere to sit.

"Ooh, what kind of game?" Meena asked.

"We could play Questions," Andrew suggested, "like we used to when we were at school."

"Is that the one where you can only speak in questions or you're out?" John asked.

"I've heard of that one, but no."

"It's sort of like Truth or Dare," Noah offered, "except without the dares, and everyone has to answer every question."

"Mostly it was a way to find out who fancied whom," Andrew clarified.

"I'm in," Lestrade said. "But don't be too devastated to learn that I don't fancy anyone here."

"How will I ever go on?" Sherlock asked, drawing a laugh from the assembled guests. He smiled, looking quite pleased with himself. Molly watched his smile falter slightly when he glanced over at John, as if to ask, "Did I get it right?" 

"Good one, mate," John said, raising his beer bottle. His brow furrowed then. "Is this a good idea, though? What with..." He trailed off, but he pointed toward Sherlock with the bottle. 

"What? What about me?"

"You're a prick," Lestrade said.

"That's never stopped anyone from asking my honest answers to questions before," Sherlock huffed. 

"Sherlock," Molly said, casting him a sympathetic look, "not everyone here is, um, accustomed to your specific brand of  _honesty._ "

Sherlock leaned toward John and lowered his voice, but not so much that the whole room couldn't still hear him. "She's talking about that  _tact_  thing you're always on about, isn't she?" 

"Mm hmm," John said. 

"The first time I've been to a party where anyone has ever suggested a game that's even  _remotely_  interesting, and now you don't want me to play?"

Molly nearly laughed out loud at his pout. An honest to God pout on a grown man! She had never seen him look so childish about something so trivial.

"Please, Sherlock, you should play," Andrew said. "I'd love to hear you talk some more.

"Down, boy," scolded Noah. 

"So," Jake asked, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, "how do we decide who goes first?" 

"It's random," Andrew said. 

"Yeah," agreed Noah. "You all just sort of pick someone."

"Molly should go first," Meena said with a wink. "It's her and Tom's party, and ladies go first."

"Oh, but I can't think of anything!" Molly finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle to pour herself another.

"Sure you can! It doesn't have to be  _good._  Start simple."

"Okay. Um..." Molly took a sip of her wine, thinking. "All right, I've got one. Where did you go on your last holiday?" 

And so it went, with the questions growing increasingly daring but never improper. How did you meet Tom and Molly? What's your favourite pizza topping? Would you wear a tutu to work for a thousand pounds? Which five items would you want with you on a desert island? Have you ever tried to return clothing that you've already worn?

"What's something you had when you were a child that you wish you still had?" Meena asked.

"Does my heterosexual virginity count?" Andrew asked, feigning a shudder, to the amusement of the group.

"I had a talent for football," Jake said. "But then I fell out of a tree one day and broke my leg. Never could run the same after that. But it all worked out. If I'd become a famous footballer, I probably would have ended up marrying a Spice Girl, and Tom here would've named his dog Winslow."

"My dad gave me this music box," Molly said, "when I was still in my Elvis phase. Hush, you! Anyway, it was shaped like a guitar, and it played 'Love Me Tender.' I'm amazed I didn't wear the thing out, I played it so many times. And then one day it broke, and we had to throw it away. I still think about that music box sometimes."

_This is actually going well,_  she thought. Even Sherlock managed to keep his answers to the questions concise and just polite enough so as not to offend anyone. She was both amazed at and impressed by his restraint.

Then, out of nowhere, it all went to hell.

"Okay, I've got one," Andrew said. "If you had to get married tomorrow, and it couldn't be to your current spouse or partner, who would you marry?"

A few of the guests asked questions for clarification. Could it be a fictional person? What about a historical figure? Someone who is already married? Once the rules were established, the answers were, for the most part, hilarious.

Andrew said Harrison Ford, but only if he still looked like Han Solo. "Young Han Solo, old Han Solo, who cares?" he said. "It's  _Han Solo_ , guys."

Judy surprised everyone by choosing PJ Harvey. "What?" She gave the room an innocent smile. "She was my first celebrity crush."

They all gave John a hard time for picking Emily Blunt, as they all agreed it was too obvious of a choice. Molly's choice of Tom Hiddleston was met with equal disdain.

When it was Sherlock's turn to answer, he shrugged and said, "Molly." Except for the crackling of the fireplace, the room went dead quiet.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice turning that one word into a warning.

Molly's eyes went to Tom. She saw his jaw tighten, his fist clench. She shook her head, trying to catch his eye. He didn't look at her, though. He was too busy glaring at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock looked around the room, an expression of genuine confusion on his face. "Obviously it wouldn't be you, John. Lestrade isn't exactly my type, either, and Mrs. Hudson is much too old for me. And Mary, well... anyway, who else is there?"

"Anyone," Tom said through clenched teeth. "Anyone at all. Anyone in the whole bloody world besides  _my fiancee_!"

"But we agreed it could be someone who was already involved with someone." Sherlock blinked, frowning. "Given her established acquaintance with my character and unusual lifestyle, she is the logical choice. And besides, it's purely hypothetical anyway."

"I think you should leave." Tom got to his feet and gestured toward the front door.

"Tom," Molly whispered.

"No, Molly. I didn't want him here in the first place!"

"Well, that's rather rude," Sherlock chided.

" _I'm_  being rude?!" Tom threw his arms up. "Sherlock Holmes, ladies and gentlemen. The brilliant detective has  _deduced_  that  _I_  am being rude to  _him_!"

"Sherlock," John said, "let's go."

"No. Why should I leave? He's the one being unreasonable."

"It's  _his_  house, Sherlock."

"Get out!" Tom bellowed, crossing the room and hauling Sherlock out of his seat by his shirt front. Before Sherlock could respond, John was on his feet and all but dragging him out the front door. 

"Thanks for the invite, Molly," he called over his shoulder as the two men left. She could hear Sherlock protesting all the way to John's car.

"Molly," Tom said, once he had regained his composure. "Kitchen. Now."

She raised her eyebrows. Tom had never spoken to her in that tone before, even when they had fought in the past. His cold voice filled her with dread, and for the briefest moment, she considered refusing to go with him. But she did, handing her wine glass to Meena as she followed him out of the room. Meena gave her hand a quick squeeze, and then the couple went to the kitchen.

"What the  _fuck_  was that?!" Tom demanded.

"You're asking me?"

"Are you trying to make me look stupid?"

"What did I do?"

"You invited  _him_!" He ran his hands through his hair. "I wanted to ask you not to. But no, I thought, it's all in my head. Nothing to worry about Tom. She may have risked losing her job and going to prison for the man, but I've got nothing to worry about because he'd barely give her the time of day in return. Now he's in  _my_  house telling the whole bloody room he wants to marry  _my_  fiancee?"

"It was just a game, Tom."

"He could have picked  _anyone_. He could have picked anyone from Kate Beckinsale to Queen Elizabeth, and he chose  _you_."

"He just doesn't think like that," she tried to explain. "He probably doesn't even know who either of those women are. It was his version of picking a name from a hat."

"I'm going out." He turned to leave. "I need some air."

"Tom, wait."

He didn't wait. He stormed out the front door. Outside, she could hear his car door slam, followed by the sound of him driving off into the night.


	12. Put the Blame on Me

Biting the inside of her cheek, Molly sat in one of the kitchen chairs. She put her face in her hands and tried to keep very still. When the urge to cry had finally subsided, she took a deep breath and returned to the guests waiting in awkward silence in her living room.

"Some party, eh?" she said with a halfhearted grin, trying to break the tension. She sat on the sofa next to Meena, who put her arm around her.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, rubbing Molly's shoulder.

"It's fine. He just needed some air. Sherlock is... still a sore subject."

"At least he didn't spend the whole evening deducing everyone's darkest secrets."

"That probably would have resulted in a few fist fights," Lestrade agreed.

"Can I help with anything?" Gianna asked. "Cleaning up in the kitchen? Anything like that?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"We should probably be going," Judy said. "Not that we're trying to get out of helping with cleanup duty."

"Church in the morning," Jake explained.

"It's fine." Molly thanked them for coming, as well as Andrew, who also politely excused himself. She didn't blame any of them. Lestrade and Noah went out to the garden to smoke while Molly, Meena, and Gianna started cleaning dishes.

"I really appreciate the help," Molly said.

"It's no trouble," Gianna told her, smiling. "You should see my family get togethers. It's not really a party until the first shouting match. Usually at least one person goes home covered in food."

Soon, they had the kitchen back in order. Lestrade and Noah had taken the folding chairs up to the study. Gianna insisted on trading contact information with Molly, which was perfectly all right with Molly. Before long, everyone had said their goodbyes except for Lestrade, who hung back.

"Would you still like to take home some stew?" she asked, opening a cabinet and peering in. "I've got a plastic container around here somewhere."

"Yes, thank you. Still getting used to living on my own again, and cooking was never my strong suit." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "So, that's not a common occurrence, is it?"

"What, Sherlock saying something utterly ridiculous?"

"No, we all know that happens every time he opens his mouth. I meant Tom flying off the handle like that."

"Oh. No, of course not. He's just... he's very sensitive where Sherlock is concerned. And he doesn't know him like we do. He doesn't get that he didn't mean anything by it."

"Still, that was a pretty serious overreaction."

"That wasn't an overreaction at all." She found a plastic container and began spooning stew into it. "It's just--"

"A sore subject, I know." He took the spoon from her. "Go sit, I've got this. I can tell your feet are killing you."

She wanted to protest, but he was right. She wasn't used to wearing heels. She sat down and pulled off her shoes. Instantly, she began to feel better.

"I'm just worried about you, Molly," he said, returning the spoon to the pot and putting the lid on the container. "It just seems like every time I see you two together, you're fighting."

"It's silly stuff." She waved a dismissive hand. "Most of the time, we're right as rain."

"If you're sure," he said, the doubt plain on his face as he came to sit next to her. She smirked and poked his arm with a finger.

"If I wasn't, I'd tell you. Remember?"

"How could I forget?" He smiled then.

He stayed for an hour or so, keeping her company while she waited for Tom to come back. They sat in the kitchen and chatted, catching up on each other's lives. He regaled her with stories about his new single life and the tribulations of being a "born again bachelor." She, in turn, bored him to tears with a detailed account of her new train commute to work. After some time, she received a text from Noah.

_Tom is here. I took his keys. I'll send him home in the morning. NP_

She sighed. "Tom's staying at Noah's flat tonight. Looks like he's too pissed to drive home."

"That's a great sign."

"It was just a bad idea to invite Sherlock. I should have known better."

"It's not your fault."

"No, of course not. But maybe things would have turned out differently if he hadn't been here."

"Or maybe he would have found something else to freak out about."

"Greg."

"Sorry." He got to his feet. "I guess I should let you get some sleep."

"Thank you for staying. It means a lot."

"Any time, Molly. I mean it. You need anything, you call."

"I will." She stood and walked him to the door. He kissed her on the cheek.

"That dress looks amazing on you, by the way." He winked. "Don't tell Tom I said that."

"I'll take it to my grave." She smiled, even though she could feel herself blushing, too.

"Take care of yourself, Molly."

"Good night."

She stood in the doorway until his car had rolled out of sight. Beckham danced around her legs. She went and stepped into her trainers, and she took Beckham for a short walk. Once they returned home, she picked up the gifts that had been left for her and Tom. For a moment, she considered waiting until tomorrow to open them. After all, they were technically for the both of them. After some internal debate, though, she picked them up and went to the sofa with them. It wasn't her fault he had decided not to stay.

Meena's bag contained a few cleaning products, some candles, a jar of honey, a vintage photo frame, and a ceramic elephant figurine. Molly couldn't help but smile. She suspected that her best friend had been spending a bit too much time on Pinterest, but she loved all of it.

Andrew had brought a fancy corkscrew. In addition to the cake, Gianna and Noah had brought a jar of homemade soup mix that Molly suspected Noah had had little to do with the making of. Lestrade had brought a small potted bamboo plant. She saved Sherlock's gift for last. She was a little surprised that he had brought a gift at all, and she wondered if John had picked something out and simply slapped Sherlock's name on it.

She pulled the purple bow off and removed the gift wrap. When she saw what was inside, she couldn't stop herself from laughing. It was a red plastic chopping board designed to look like a pool of blood dripping down the side of the counter. Or possibly tomato sauce, but that wasn't Molly's first thought. There was no longer any doubt in her mind about who had chosen this.

_It's perfect. Thank you. MH_

She gathered up the gifts and took them into the kitchen, placing them one at a time on the dining table. Then, she changed her mind about leaving the cutting board there. She buried the packaging in the bottom of the bin, then hid the cutting board in the cupboard with the other kitchen tools. If Tom asked, she would just tell him she had bought it for herself.

A wave of exhaustion crashed suddenly over her, and she trudged up the stairs. Toby was waiting for her on the bed, tail flicking back and forth.

"Looks like it's you and me, Tobes," she said, shrugging out of her cardigan. Her phone buzzed, and she looked at the screen.

_Saw it and thought of you. No big deal. SH_

She snorted, wondering just what it said about her that something like that would remind anyone of her. With a yawn, she plugged her mobile into the charger and changed into pyjamas. She was asleep before she knew it.

* * *

The sound of her heels clicking on the tiled floor sounded distant as it echoed through the long corridor. Something felt off, like there ought to be other people here. Maybe they were all out to lunch, she speculated.

She couldn't remember why exactly she needed to go to the lab, but she felt certain that she would remember by the time she got there. And why was it taking so long? It felt like she had been walking for far too long. 

Eventually, she finally reached the lab and let herself in. She went through the door to the small locker room and opened her locker. Looking in the mirror, she realized that she was still wearing her red dress. Had she come straight from the party? 

She put on her lab coat. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw another face in the mirror. When she turned to look, she saw that she was alone. Shaking her head, she locked her locker and went back into the lab. 

Just like any other day, she set up a slide and put it under the microscope lens. She felt someone touch her shoulder. Without looking, she put out a hand, and someone placed a new slide in her palm. She replaced the one under the lens, but before she had time to identify what she was looking at, she felt another tap. Another new slide was provided, and then another, and another until she finally looked up. There was no one else in the lab.

"Just... give me a minute," she said to the empty room. "I need to examine these slides." She turned her attention back to the microscope. All of a sudden, she realized what she was looking at. 

Blood cells. 

Her whole body went ice cold. Slowly, she turned and saw a slide folio on the table near her right hand. The folio had ten slots and eight slides. Trembling, she replaced the slide that she had most recently viewed.

Each slot had a name written next to it in small, neat penmanship.

_J. Winslow_  
_M. Watson_  
_J. Watson_  
_M Suryanarayana_  
_G. Lestrade_  
_M. Hudson  
_ _T. Hooper  
_ _D. Hooper  
_ _S. Holmes_

"I missed you before."

The voice came from somewhere behind her, and she whirled around, looking for the source.

That voice. She  _knew_  that voice.

But it couldn't be.

"This time, I didn't miss anyone."

She looked down at herself, as if checking to make sure she was still intact. Funny, she didn't remember her dress being so glossy. It almost looked wet.

Then she saw the hole.

A stream of blood poured from a hole just below her ribcage, staining the floor beneath her.

She looked up into the wild eyes of Jim Moriarty. He smiled gleefully, like a child who had just discovered how easy it is to kill an insect. He knelt down and held out a slide, allowing a drop of her blood to land in the center, then placed a cover slip over the top. Then he stood, and she turned to watch him place the slide into the empty slot in the folio.

"Now I have the whole collection."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a lighter note, that cutting board really exists. Google "splash cutting board." It's adorable.


	13. Blue Christmas

Molly woke up in a cold sweat. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was nearly nine in the morning. When had she gone to bed? Sometime after midnight?

Her heart was still racing from that awful dream. Moriarty's collection of blood slides. All her dearest friends' names. Her nephews, Daniel and Trevor, were on there as well. The very thought of Moriarty ever so much as going  _near_  them was enough to turn her blood to ice in her veins.

It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. Probably, she guessed, caused by the combination of too much wine with dinner and the fight with Tom. Once her body started to calm down, she was aware of a dull ache in her head. She needed water and a shower.

Downstairs, the front door opened. She heard the familiar sound of Beckham being let off his leash. Tom must have already come home and taken him for a walk. A minute or two passed, then she heard Tom's footsteps coming up the stairs. He appeared in the doorway and gave her a hesitant smile. "Morning," he said.

"Morning," she replied.

"I think we need to talk."

"I think you're right."

He came to sit next to her on the bed. He took a deep breath. "I was a right arsehole last night. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you. You have no control over the words and actions of others.  I let my own insecurities get the better of me. You didn't deserve to be treated that way, especially in front of all our friends." He took her hand. "I sincerely apologize for my behaviour last night, and even though I don't understand it, I promise to try to be more reasonable about your strange friendship with Sherlock."

She suspected he had practised that speech the whole drive home. She wasn't very good at stringing together coherent sentences under the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best circumstances. Instead of trying to come up with something equally eloquent, she smiled and squeezed his hand. 

"It's okay," she said. "And I should be more sensitive to your feelings." She looked over at the clock. "I've got to get ready to go," she said. "I have a dress appointment, I'm supposed to meet Mary."

"A fitting? 

"No, we're still looking."

"Still looking? Molly, the wedding is in three months."

"I know." She looked down at her hands. "I wish we could just get married tomorrow and be done with it all."

"Me, too. Why did we plan on such a long engagement again?" 

"Your brother was abroad last February. You wanted to wait until he was back in England."

"That's right. He was in New York. It's all his fault, then." He grinned. "There's still time to elope, you know."

"Absolutely not. Sam and Robbie are both coming and they've promised to behave. I'm not about to miss that opportunity." Molly's two older brothers had fallen out a few years back over something so stupid that Molly couldn't even remember what it was. Fortunately, they had agreed to set aside their differences for their little sister's big day.

"Fair point." He stood and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You get yourself ready. I'll make something to eat."

The shower felt amazing. Once she was clean and dry and had brushed her teeth, she felt almost human again. A large glass of water was the thing she needed.

Downstairs, Tom was just finishing up two plates of French toast. Molly thought she might just die of delight when the vanilla and cinnamon scents hit her nose.  _Tom must feel truly awful if he's making my favourite breakfast,_  she thought to herself. She poured herself a glass of water while Tom set the plates on the table. 

"So, what are you up to today?" she asked, digging right in to her breakfast.

"Not much," he said. "Got a load of emails to catch up on. Probably go to the pub later. You still haven't been."

"I know. I've been so busy." She sighed. "Maybe I'll come round, if I'm not out too late with Mary."

"I'd like that. You could meet some of the regulars, they're great. And Siobhan, she's great, too."

"Is she the barmaid?" 

"She's the owner. You'd love her. I've told her all about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Try not to be gone too long. Oh, by the way. I've got a conference in Reading next month. I leave on the 20th, and I'll be home on the 23rd."

"A conference? But it's Christmas."

"It's  _before_  Christmas. I'll be back in time."

Molly finished her breakfast and pushed her plate back. They had invited several family members, on both sides, to spend Christmas with them at the new house. People would begin arriving on the 22nd. How was she meant to get ready for company without his help? 

"Okay," was all she said.  

* * *

"Just like that?" Mary asked, incredulous. "He walked out, in front of everyone?" 

"Just like that." Molly fiddled with the stitching on her sleeve.

"And this was after he had  _already_  insulted your cooking?"

"Well, he didn't exactly insult it--"

"No, Molly, he  _did_." Mary opened the door, and the two women walked into the small reception area of the bridal shop. "I'm just worried about you is all."

"Hello!" greeted the smiling woman behind the reception podium. "How are you today?"

"Wonderful, thanks!" Mary replied. "My friend here is getting married in three months and we  _still_  have not found a dress."

"Oh, dear!" The woman cast a sympathetic look at Molly. "Is this your first time here?"

"Yes," Molly said. She didn't clarify that this was her first time dress shopping  _at all._  It wasn't really her fault, though. Every time she had made an appointment, something had come up, and she had needed to reschedule. 

"Now, do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, under Hooper." She watched the associate scan the page.

"Ah, yes. Here you are, Miss Hooper. You're scheduled with Imogen. I'll fetch her for you."

"I just want to know that you're sure this is what you want," Mary said. "I don't want to see another marriage go to hell the way mine did."

"Your marriage did not go to hell," Molly protested. "It's just a rough patch. Better to smooth it out now and get it out of the way early, right?"

"Oh, Molly. If only I could tell you everything."

Imogen appeared and greeted the two women. She led them back to the showroom, asking questions the whole way.

"What are you looking for in a dress?" 

"I don't know. I'm only 5'3", so I don't want to look like a cake topper."

"Understandable!" Imogen smiled. "I think I've got a few ideas. Wait here, and I'll be back in a jiff."

Molly wasn't sure she had ever tried on so many dresses in her whole life. She felt like she must surely have tried on every single dress in the store, but Imogen kept bringing more. Mary offered feedback and kept reminding Molly not to settle for something she didn't love. The logical part of her mind knew it was unlikely that she would find the perfect dress on her first shopping trip, but she couldn't help feeling a bit discouraged. Throughout the whole process,though, Imogen stayed sweet and patient, and Molly was extremely grateful for this. 

"Hmm," Imogen mused, eyes narrowed in thought. "You know what? I have an idea. Hang on a minute." She disappeared through a door. 

"I'll bet she's going to bring you another dress," Mary deadpanned. 

"I think you may be on to something." Both women laughed, and they were still giggling when Imogen returned. 

"Here. This one is brand new. We haven't even put it into our system yet. And I have a hunch."

Once the dress was on, Molly couldn't tear her eyes away from her reflection. The A-line skirt was made of tulle, and the bodice had a modest amount of lace. A small rhinestone band separated the two sections, and the dress was topped off with lacy cap sleeves. For the first time that afternoon, are actually felt like a bride to be. 

"Oh," said Mary and Imogen in unison when Molly stepped out of the fitting room. Imogen helped her finish zipping up the back and gestured for her to look in the three-way mirror. 

"What do you think?" Molly asked, scrutinizing her reflection from every angle. 

"Hold on, let me take a photo." Mary snapped a photo, then tapped out what Molly hopeed was a short message and not a Facebook post. After a moment, she turned the phone to show Molly the responses. 

_That looks incredible! Wish I was there to see it in person! JW_

_BUY IT RIGHT NOW. MS_

"So we're all three in agreement," Mary said, grinning. "But what do  _you_ think?"

"I think Imogen here is a genius." The girl beamed at Molly's praise.

Half an hour later, Imogen had taken measurements and made an appointment for a fitting, and Molly and Mary were talking over tea and sandwiches.

"Right before Christmas?" Mary shook her head. "Oh,  _no_. How are you going to handle all of that by yourself?"

"I'm sure I can manage. Haven't women been doing this sort of thing for centuries?"

"Maybe before women were busy doctors with hour-long work commutes." Mary placed a hand on Molly's. "If you need anything, you phone me, all right? I'm still between jobs at the moment, so I've got nothing but time."

Molly was surprised that her friend was still so nonchalant about her unemployment. She had asked once if there was anything  _she_  could do to help. Mary had simply told her that she had made some good investments several years back and had enough of a safety net to last her quite some time. Something about the way she had said it had discouraged Molly from inquiring further. One day, though, she hoped that Mary would share a bit more about her mysterious past with her.


	14. Are You Lonesome Tonight?

Molly was secretly pleased to discover that Siobhan was not the Celtic siren she had imagined. The pub owner was a tall woman in her late 50s, thin as a rail, and an absolute delight. Over the next three weeks, Molly went along to the pub with Tom several times, mostly to chat with Siobhan and hear stories of her self-proclaimed "misspent youth." Having spent the majority of her twenties in medical school and residency hadn't left Molly with much time for adventure.

She and Tom also managed to avoid any further fights during that time. He even spent several days helping her get the house in order for company so that she wouldn't have so much to do while he was away. It was almost like being back to normal, the way they were before they bought the house. In the evenings he made dinner or they ordered takeaway, and they watched telly and went out to the pub. Tom had made a few mates there, but so far the only person Molly had grown attached to was Siobhan. 

The Friday before her holiday began, she was in a fantastic mood as she left Bart's. It was just beginning to snow, and it was a rather lovely afternoon in spite of the cold. She was even very nearly looking forward to having the place to herself for a few days. As she was walking toward the tube station, her phone rang. She didn't recognize the number, but she answered anyway. 

"Hello?"

"Hello, dear! It's Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Hudson! How are you? How's the hip?"

"I'm fine, and no worse than usual. Say, Molly, are you in the city at the moment?"

"I am, you caught me right before catching the train."

"Oh, good! Marie, you know, Mrs. Turner from next door, she and I have been baking all day, and we have more Christmas biscuits than we know what to do with. Would you please come round for tea and take a few home with you before Sherlock gets home and claims them all?"

"I would love to, thank you! I can be there in half an hour."

The landlady hadn't exaggerated. Her small kitchen was overflowing with at least two dozen different varieties of biscuits. Molly stayed for tea and listened while Mrs. Hudson told her all about her day of baking, the neighbourhood gossip Mrs. Turner had shared with her (even though Molly had no idea who any of the people mentioned were), and details of several recipes. By the time she left, Mrs. Hudson had loaded up three tins full of biscuits and written out four recipes that she insisted would impress her visiting relatives.

As Molly stepped out onto the pavement, she nearly ran right into Sherlock.

"Oh!" she cried, scrambling to keep her tins from falling. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Molly." He frowned. "Are those Mrs. Hudson's biscuit tins?" 

"Yes. She phoned a couple hours ago to invite me over for tea and biscuits."

"And she gave you _all_ the biscuits?" 

"No, of course not!" She laughed out loud at the worry on his face. "She's got loads more."

"Did she make the ones with the coffee flavoured frosting?" He eyed her tins, and she took a step back, grinning. 

"She did." Her smile faltered, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I wanted to say sorry for what happened at the housewarming."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong." She started to protest, but he cut her off. "No, you didn't. You were the absolute portrait of a charming hostess."

"I couldn't even seat all my dinner guests."

"Well, no party is perfect. Or so John tells me. I don't get many invites to parties. Can't imagine why." He smirked. "Point is, you don't need to apologize. Now, more importantly, do you have any of those coffee frosted biscuits?"

Fortunately, the biscuits in question were in the topmost tin. She plucked one out and held it just beyond his reach.

"Say please," she said, a smirk forming on her own lips.

"Why? You already got it out for me, we both know you're going to give it to me. What's the point in being polite?"

"The point is just being polite, Sherlock."

"The point of being polite _is_ being polite? That doesn't make any sense." He started to reach for the biscuit, but she dodged him. "Fine," he huffed. "May I _please_  have a biscuit?"

"Of course you may." She held the biscuit out to him. She nearly dropped the tins again when, instead of taking the biscuit like a civilised person, he leaned down and ate it right from her hand. The whole cookie in one large bite. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as she felt his lips brush her fingertips.

"What?" he asked, still chewing. He swallowed the cookie. "I'm wearing gloves. Don't want them to get sticky." With that, he brushed past her and walked into 221B Baker Street. The door swung closed behind him.

* * *

Molly's good mood evaporated two days later, right after Tom left for Reading. She had spent so much energy on trying to be cheerful that, once there was no one around to be cheerful _for,_ she found she had no more energy to do so.

She sat on the sofa drinking a glass of wine, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, and staring at the bare Christmas tree. Tom had brought home a lovely artificial tree, and they had put it up that very afternoon, but there hadn't been enough time to decorate it before he had to leave for the train station. "Besides," he said, "it will end up looking much better of you do it alone than if I mess it all up." So she had driven him to the station and then brought his car home, and now here she was.

Her phone dinged, and she pulled it from her pocket. It was a photo from John. In it, Sherlock scowled up at the camera from under a ridiculously oversized Santa hat, one hand raised in a clear attempt to snatch away the phone. John had added a novelty border and the words "Merry Christmas!!!" in red and white striped text across the bottom. Chuckling, she sent a reply. 

_Merry Christmas! Hope he lets you live long enough to actually see Christmas! MH_

Stretching, she decided to treat herself to a bubble bath. She went upstairs and filled the tub, taking her wine glass and bottle with her. As she slid into the jasmine scented water, she knew that this was the best decision she had made all day. She brought her book with her and turned on a Tom Waits album, as it was the most appropriate music she could think of to go with the book. Maybe these few days to herself would give her time to finally discover what really happened to the filmmaker's daughter.

Thirty minutes and two glasses later, she was having trouble concentrating on the book. She placed a marker in it and set it aside, then let her head rest against the edge of the tub, eyes closed. The water was starting to cool, and she knew she would need to get out soon.

Her phone buzzed. She reached for a towel to dry her hand, then checked the message. 

_Delete that photo. It's undignified. SH_

Giggling, she responded, glad to engage in conversation. 

_I think it really captures the truest essence of Sherlock Holmes. MH_

_If you don't delete it, I will do it myself. SH_

_Fine. Come and try. I dare you. MH_

_Be there in an hour. SH_

She nearly dropped her phone in the tub. Was he serious?

She knocked her half full glass of wine into the tub as she scrambled out. She grabbed for her towel and quickly dried herself. Twenty minutes later, she was dressed, and her hair was mostly dry. She appraised her reflection in the mirror. Maybe the red dress wasn't the most practical garment for a _maybe_ visit from Sherlock. A bit embarrassed, she changed into jeans and a white button down over a pink camisole. _Much better,_ she thought. 

Now all she had to do was wait and see if he really came.


	15. It's Now or Never

By the time the doorbell rang, she was half asleep on the sofa. She sprang to her feet, ran her hands through her hair, and, shooing Beckham back, went to answer the door.

"Hi," she said, trying not to smile  _too_  widely. 

"Hi," he replied. "May I come in?" 

"Of course." She stepped aside to allow him in and closed the door behind him. "I wasn't sure you were serious about coming."

"Hence the nap, I assume." He removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the rack by the door, then patted Beckham's head. Satisfied that the visitor was indeed friendly, the dog trotted off into the kitchen.  

"What nap?" She blushed. 

"The one that left your hair looking like that." He smoothed a hand over her hair, and only then did she realize that a few strands were sticking out at odd angles. "There. That's better."

_Giddiness.  
_ _Excitement.  
_ _Terror._ _  
_

"Let me see your phone."

"What? No."

"Molly." He gave her  _that_  smile, the one that usually let him get whatever he wanted. Or, at least, it used to, back when she had barely been able to string a sentence together around him. Now, she still had to work to say no to him, but she knew it could be done. 

"No. You're just going to delete John's Christmas card."

"Of course. That's why I came." His eyes scanned the room, no doubt searching for her phone.

"You took an hour train ride out to Sutton at ten o'clock on a Sunday night just to delete a photo from my phone."

"Yep." He strolled around the living room, casually observing all the surfaces where a phone might logically be set. Molly folded her arms and watched, amusement plain on her face. Her mobile was in her jeans pocket, and she knew he would figure it out sooner rather than later. She had also emailed the photo to herself. She knew that he would deduce this as well, and she had no doubt that he could hack into both her personal and work email accounts. For this reason, she had also emailed it to a secret third email account, one that she used exclusively for retail mailing lists and that sort of thing. If he managed to find and hack that one, then she would be surprised. 

After a few minutes, he came to stand right in front of her. "Hand it over," he said. 

"Absolutely not."

"It's in your right back pocket."

"So?"

"So, what's stopping me from taking it?"

"Your strict sense of etiquette." She struggled to keep a straight face. He narrowed his eyes at her, then reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Oh!" she breathed, alarmed. He pulled her against his chest, smiling down at her. All she could do was gape up at him. 

"Have I ever told you how nice you look when you wear pink? Really brightens your complexion."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are trying to distract me with flattery. You know that doesn't work anymore."

"Doesn't it?" He winked, then released her, stepping back as he unlocked her phone. Her hand went to her back pocket, but she knew it was already too late. She pouted at him, hoping that he wouldn't call her bluff. Several taps later, he returned the phone to her, triumphant smile in place on his lips. 

"Damn it, Sherlock." She opened her messages and, sure enough, it was gone. He had also deleted it from her photo album. She heaved a dramatic sigh, then retreated to the sofa, crossing her arms.

"What? It was an unflattering photo."

"I liked it." She sniffled for effect, drawing her knees up and hugging them to her chest. Turning her head, she stared sadly into the glow of the fireplace. 

"Would this make it up to you?" he asked. She turned back, and he held out a small wrapped package. Brow furrowed, she looked up at him. 

"What's this?" she asked. 

"A Christmas gift."

"You've  _never_  gotten me a Christmas gift."

"Haven't I?" Upon seeing her expression, he at least had the good sense to look chagrined. "You're right. I haven't. And I've never thanked you for the socks."

"They were just socks." She waved a hand dismissively . 

"I like socks." He raised an eyebrow. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"We sock enthusiasts can recognize our own." She nodded solemnly, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. His eyes went to her own pale blue socks with snowmen skiing across them. 

"Kindred spirits," he mused. "But I do have to ask, though, why those particular birds?" 

"I don't know, really. I just saw the penguins and thought of you."

"That's odd. I can't recall ever mentioning them, and there's certainly no physical resemblance." He shook his head and sat down next to her, waving the present. "So? Aren't you going to open it?" 

"I didn't get you anything," she protested weakly.

"Your social conventions are boring. Open the damn present."

She took it and stared at it, feeling somewhat apprehensive. It felt strange to be opening a Christmas gift from Sherlock. The housewarming gift had been odd, too, but the strangeness was muted by the presence of the other guests' gifts. This time, not only was his the only gift she had, but he was here to watch her open it. What if she hated it? Sure, the chopping board was perfect, but what if his gifting luck had run out? There was no way she could lie if it was terrible. He would know immediately. 

Slowly, she pulled the purple ribbon off. The package was wrapped in the same grey paper as before, but a bit more artfully. She peeled the tape away and opened the paper to reveal a cereal box.

"I needed a box," he said by way of explanation, gesturing for her to continue.

She opened the cereal box and removed a bundle of tissue paper. When she finally got to the present, her breath caught in her throat. All she could do was stare. 

"Here, let me." He leaned over and turned the key, and the familiar tune began to play. 

"Oh, Sherlock," she breathed. It was  _exactly_  like the one she had had as a child. Well, not exactly; it was in better condition. But it felt so familiar in her hands: the black plastic, the gold trim, right down to the strings.

"I found it on eBay, same night as your party. Ordered it while sitting right over there, as a matter--"

Without thinking, she kissed him. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she meant to pull away, but at that exact moment, he cupped her face in his hands. She blindly reached out and managed to set the music box on the side table. Deep down, she knew that this was a terrible, terrible idea, but she wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass her by again.

Gathering courage she didn't know she had, she slid onto Sherlock's lap, straddling his lap. His hands moved to her hips, and she couldn't stifle the moan that purred in her throat. She grasped his shoulders, her thumbs brushing his collarbones. The feel of his tongue brushing against hers nearly made her melt into a puddle. Involuntarily, her hips pressed tighter against his, and the sound that came from him was one that she would remember vividly until her dying day.

One of his hands snaked around to the small of her back, daring to slip beneath the fabric of her shirts. His fingers on her bare skin sent a shiver straight up her spine. Her own hands trailed down and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, that incredible purple shirt that was  _finally_  under her fingers. It was just as soft as she had imagined. She worked the buttons open slowly, giving him time to stop her if he wanted to. Instead of stopping her, he broke the kiss and pressed his lips to the spot just below her earlobe. She gasped, fumbling with a button as his tongue flicked against her skin. Both of his hands were on her waist now, beneath her shirt and pressed against her skin.

Soon, his shirt fell open, and Molly thought she might just die right there. She pushed it down his shoulders, and for the first time since they'd begun, they made eye contact. Molly froze. If either of them was going to stop this, now was the time, and it would have to be him.

Instead, he shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall onto the sofa behind him. Supporting her with an arm around her back, he shifted their positions so that she was lying on her back, him above her with one knee on the sofa and one foot planted on the floor. He kissed her again, and she felt him undoing her own buttons. Once her blouse was on the floor, she ran her hands along his arms, his back, everywhere she had always fantasized about touching him. Well,  _almost_  everywhere.

His fingers went to the button on her jeans, and he looked up at her, wordlessly asking her permission. She nodded, and he made quick work of removing her jeans. She almost felt silly, lying there in her pants and camisole and snowman socks, but then he stood and toed off his shoes. Her mouth fell open as she watched him undo his belt and remove his trousers. She couldn't help but notice that he was wearing the navy blue penguin socks she had gotten him all those years ago. But that wasn't what held her attention. No, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the clear outline in his boxer briefs.

_Oh god,_  she thought.  _This is really happening. This is really fucking happening!_

Then he was on top of her again, and all thoughts left her mind as his lips crashed against hers again. His hands were on her, sliding her camisole up her body, until he had to break the kiss to pull it off and toss it away. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, and the top of her breast. When he took her nipple into his mouth, she felt  _certain_  that she would die. She pressed the fingers of one hand into his back, and the other hand went to his pants, stroking him through the thin fabric. He hissed, then let out a shaky breath. His eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, they were both still.

"Sherlock," she whispered, not entirely sure what she meant.

"I'm clean," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her sternum. "And you're on the pill."

"You're sure?"

"Completely."

With that, she hooked her fingers under his waistband and gave his pants a tug. He pulled them off and kicked them aside, then removed hers as well. She barely had a chance to see anything before he was on top of her once more, but she certainly felt it. He reached down and traced her lower lips with his fingers. Before he could touch her more firmly, she grabbed him by the wrist. She wanted to tell him that she was already on the edge, that he didn't need to put in any extra effort, that she was ready to scream with the want of him. All that came out, though was a breathy, "You."

He understood. He pressed into her, and she couldn't tell where her moan ended and his began. She had always imagined sex with Sherlock to be a slow, romantic thing. This was nothing like that. He thrust into her, just this side of too hard, and she was already so charged up that, within seconds, she came for the first time, biting down on his shoulder to strangle her cry. Grunting, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head away from his shoulder. It didn't hurt, not in a bad way, and she dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades.

"Look at me," he said. She gazed up into his eyes, too far gone to care what her face must look like. His other hand squeezed her breast, pinching her nipple. She watched his face as he squeezed his eyes shut, his own mouth open in a silent cry. He released her hair and braced himself against the arm of the sofa, leaning down to kiss her again. She felt her body explode, and he swallowed her long moan. His thrusts became more uneven, and he stilled inside her. She felt him come, and she ground her hips against him, riding out the rest of her own climax.

They lay there, panting, tangled together, for what may have been minutes or may have been eternity.

As her body began to calm, Molly thought to herself,  _What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly's [music box](https://youtu.be/nW3_83N-24U) is a real thing.


	16. Dirty, Dirty Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but now that the holiday season is over, I should have plenty of time to get back to making regular updates. Thanks for sticking with me.

Neither one of them spoke as they gathered up their clothes and got dressed. Molly's heart was still threatening to beat its way right out of her chest. She couldn't look at Sherlock. Her brain still hadn't fully processed what had happened yet. 

Once she was fully dressed again, she excused herself to the toilet, where she cleaned herself up. She washed her hands twice, even though she wasn't entirely certain why. She looked at her reflection. Sure enough, she looked thoroughly shagged. Her cheeks were still flushed, her hair was an absolute disaster, and her lips were kiss swollen. And it was all Sherlock's fault. 

_Sherlock_. The man she had been in love with for years. 

The man who was _not_ her fiance.

Her hands shook as she turned off the taps. The reality of what she had just done was setting in. Trembling, she brought her hands to her face, trying to slow her breathing. She had just cheated on her fiance, the man she was going to marry. What kind of person _did_ that?! 

_Guilt.  
_ _Shame.  
_ _Satisfaction._

"Molly?" Sherlock's voice came soft from the other side of the door. She tried to hold in a sob, but to no avail. He knocked on the door and called her name a bit louder. "Please, come out. I believe this is... well... this calls for a conversation."

She took a deep breath and, biting the inside of her cheek, opened the door. Avoiding eye contact, she brushed past him and went to the kitchen. She couldn't bring herself to return to the sofa. As she seated herself at the table, he went to her cupboard and pulled out two glasses. He filled them both with water and brought them to the table, taking the seat across from her.

"That was... unexpected," he said after a long pause. 

"Why?" She finally looked at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "Why _now?_ "

"I..." He ran his fingers up and down the sides of his glass. "I don't know how to answer that. It wasn't _planned_."

"All these years. All these years, you _knew_ how I felt about you. And _nothing._ "

"Molly, I have, for a very long time, considered myself to be married to my work. You know that."

"So what's changed?" 

"You." All she could do was stare at him. He continued, "But not really."

"What does that even mean?" A tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her cheek. He looked like he wanted to reach out and brush it away, but he kept his hands on his water glass. 

"You're getting married," he said simply, rolling one shoulder in a half hearted shrug. 

"Oh, that's it, is it?" A giggle escaped her throat, a sharp, hysterical sound. "Is this how you reacted when John got engaged, then?"

"What? No. Of course not." He sighed, his eyebrows knitting together. "Why do we have to analyse it?" 

"You, of all people, don't want to analyse something?" She shook her head. "I'm not buying it."

There was a long pause. Sherlock stared at his water glass, and Molly stared at Sherlock.

"He doesn't deserve you, Molly." He met her gaze. "You _do_ know that, don't you?"

She shrugged, not trusting her voice not to break. 

"I'm serious. Why are you even marrying this prick, anyway?"

"Don't call him that."

"Why? He _is_ a prick. He's absolutely awful to you."

"Yeah, well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" She got up and took her glass to the sink. She meant only to throw its contents down the drain, but the whole thing slipped from her hand, and the glass shattered in the sink. Her resolve shattered along with it, and she gripped the edge of the counter, sob after sob wracking her body.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, and it only made her cry harder. Part of her wanted desperately to turn and bury her face in his chest, let him hold her until the internal storm had passed. Instead, she whirled around and shoved him as hard as she could. Caught off guard, he stumbled and caught himself on the kitchen table. When she brought herself to meet his gaze, he was gaping at her as if he had never seen her before.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and brimming with venom.

"Molly, we need to--"

"Get _out!_ Out of my house!" She picked up a dish towel and hurled it at him. He caught it, so she grabbed the next closest item off the counter, a box of teabags, and threw it, too. It hit him in the chest, popped open, and sent the teabags flying in all directions.

"Please, calm down, Molly, I--"

"Shut up!" Reaching blindly behind her, she pulled a ladle from the utensil jar and pointed it at him. "I am tired, Sherlock. And I am _done_. No more games. I have nothing left to give you." Her arm started to tremble, but she held tight to the ladle, dimly aware that she probably didn't look nearly as menacing as she hoped. "Get. Out."

He regarded her for a long moment, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable under the heat of her glare. Finally, his shoulders sagged the tiniest bit, and he turned to leave the kitchen. She heard him stop to pat Beckham, then the door opened and closed, and she slumped to the floor, her back against the cupboard. The sound of the ladle clattering across the kitchen floor grated on her ears, and she hugged her legs to her chest, choking on her own tears. She pressed her forehead against her knees, too upset to care about soaking her jeans.

She didn't know how much time passed before she felt something touch her shin. Sniffling, she looked up to see Toby, one paw held up as if he wanted to bat at her. A smile crept in through her despair, and she pulled the cat to her and held him tight. His steady purr was a balm for her soul, and before long she found that the tears had dried up, and she was exhausted all the way to her bones.

Beckham was fast asleep in his usual spot next to Tom's chair, and Molly was glad she wouldn't have to take him out for another walk before bed. She put out the fireplace and then carried Toby up the stairs to the bedroom. Somewhat robotically, she pulled off her jeans and blouse. She considered taking another shower, but it would have to wait until morning. Everything would have to wait until morning. She didn't even bother to change into pyjamas.

* * *

By noon, Molly had nearly cleaned her whole house. First thing in the morning, she had stripped her bed and thrown the bedding into the wash. Even though she knew that the scent probably hadn't carried, it wouldn't do to risk having Tom come home and notice another man's cologne on their sheets. She also checked the sofa for any telltale signs. None were apparent, but she sprayed down all of the living room furniture with fabric refresher anyway. After putting her earbuds in and turning on a Sarah McLachlan album, she put the kitchen back in order and scrubbed every surface. Beckham spent most of the morning following her around. Probably missing Tom, she suspected. She didn't mind the company, except when he insisted on lying in the bathtub while she was trying to clean.

Around one, the doorbell rang. Molly pulled out her earbuds and went to answer it.

"Gianna?" she said by way of greeting, perplexed.

"Hi!" The woman cocked her head. "Tom didn't tell you, did he?"

"No, I don't think so. Tell me what?"

"Noah brought his old futon. Tom said you needed something for your guest room, and this old thing hasn't gotten any real use since uni." Gianna said, glancing over her shoulder. "After about ten minutes, we'll have to go help him lug it out of the car. Any sooner and he'll insist that he doesn't need the help." She rolled her eyes. "Sorry for dropping by unannounced."

"It's okay. You didn't know it was unannounced." Molly smiled, and she found that she was actually pleased to see her new friend. "Thank you. I was actually about to start panicking about where to put everyone. My mum is coming in tomorrow, and his parents will be here the next day."

"Oh, dear."

"Yeah. I suppose we can let his parents have our room, and Mum can have the futon. I can probably fit on the chair in the living room if he takes the sofa."

"You ought to get an airbed. They're not very expensive, and they're great for company, even after you've got the place fully furnished. Just stash it away in a cupboard in case you end up with more company than you've got beds for."

"All right," Noah called from the driveway, "you win! I need help!"

"See?" Gianna grinned.

Once the three of them had managed to get the futon upstairs and put back together, Molly had offered to make lunch. Noah politely declined, stating that they were actually en route to visit Gianna's family in Croydon. "Your place wasn't too far out of the way," he said, "and he's actually doing me a favour taking the damn thing off my hands."

Molly spent the rest of the afternoon shopping. By the time she came home, she had bought an air bed, two new bedding sets, some towels, several toiletries, a few bottles of wine, and a cute set of storage baskets. As soon as she got home, she popped open one of the the wine bottles and made herself a sandwich to go with it. She tossed a handful of crisps onto the plate with her sandwich, then settled herself on the sofa to watch telly for a bit. She flipped through the channels, quickly skipping over anything with romance or drama. In the end, she settled on a cooking show. Maybe she would absorb something useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but I'm still reeling from The Final Problem. I'm still contemplating how much of series four I want to include in this fic. We'll see what happens!


	17. Doin' the Best I Can

Darcy Hooper was a petite brunette, just like her daughter. The two women might have been mistaken for sisters were it not for the smattering of grey hairs that Molly's mother was too proud to dye. When she arrived at the house the next day, her face lit up. 

 

"Mum!" Molly cried, pulling her mother into a hug. 

"Hello, baby girl!" Darcy held her daughter out at arm's length. "Oh, look at you. You look so lovely. Where's Tom?" 

"He's in Reading for a few days, Mum. Didn't you get my email?"

"In Reading? But it's Christmas."

" _Before_ Christmas. He'll be back tomorrow. And his folks will be here, too. But tonight, it's just you and me." Molly ushered her mother in and closed the door, nudging Beckham back with her knee. She took her mother's four bags (surely the woman didn't need that many bags for a five day trip!) and set them aside.

Darcy took off her coat and sat herself on the sofa. Molly only hesitated for a moment before joining her. Immediately, she was bombarded with questions about the wedding, the house, her job, Tom's job. It didn't bother her. She and her mother loved each other, but they had never been overly close, and the gap had only widened since her father's death eight years prior. The last time they had been in the same room had been just after the birth of her youngest nephew four years prior, so it was nice to catch her mum up on her life.

Also, she was secretly pleased to have something to keep her mind off of a certain consulting detective who had spent far more than his share of time in her dreams the previous night.

Since her mother refused to allow her to cook dinner for them, Molly took her to the pub instead. 

"Where's your Tom, then?" asked Siobhan after exchanging greetings with Molly and introductions with Darcy. 

"Reading," Molly said. "He'll be back tomorrow, along with his folks."

"His folks are from Reading?" 

"No, they're from Dartford."

"Well then what the hell is he doing in Reading?"

"Realtor's conference."

"Terrible timing, isn't it? Just before Christmas."

"That's what I said," Darcy interjected. "Left her here all by herself to get the house ready for company." She put an arm around Molly. "You should have called me. I could have come out early."

"He helped some before he left," Molly protested weakly. 

"I saw your tree. Not one decoration in sight. And it's your first Christmas together in your own house."

"Well, he wanted it to look nice. He said he'll just muck it up if he helps."

"Sounds like a man who doesn't want to help with a chore," Siobhan said, drawing a pint for another patron. 

"So," Molly said, changing the subject, "what have you got to eat tonight, Siobhan?" 

"Steak pies."

"Oh, that sounds good. We'll take two, please."

The steak pies were in fact good. Molly and her mum stayed well into the evening. Around eight, an older fellow brought in an acoustic guitar and set up near the fire. Judging by the looks that she saw exchanged, Molly suspected that at least a few of his songs were about Siobhan. It was sweet to see the normally fiery barmaid blush like a schoolgirl. After about an hour of music, the songwriter announced that he'd be taking a short break, and he went to the bar to chat with Siobhan.

"You're awfully quiet," Darcy commented. "What's on your mind?" 

"Just thinking about music," Molly said. 

"Music?"

"Yeah." She nodded toward the man. "He's good. I mean, _really_ good. And here he is, playing in a little pub in Sutton when, if all were fair and good in the world, he could be selling albums across the globe."

"When I was your age, some of the most famous musicians were fellows like him."

"Yeah, but that's just it, isn't it? Nobody wants that anymore. It's all about being flashy and putting on a good show. But look at Siobhan." She smiled. "That's what music should do." Her mind drifted to John and Mary's wedding, when Sherlock played the waltz he had composed for them. There had been so much said in those notes, the kinds of things she knew his brilliant mind could never find the words to say. 

"You always did love music," Darcy mused. "So much like your father." She smiled wistfully. "One more before we go, then?" 

* * *

Tom's parents arrived the next morning a bit before noon. Once introductions had been made, Molly busied herself in the kitchen making lunch. She mentally cursed herself for not having thought to pick up something nicer than sandwiches and crisps. It would have to do, though. Maybe she could run out to the shop once Tom got home.

As it turned out, Darcy and Georgia hit it off instantly. When Molly came to say that lunch was ready, the two women were having an animated chat on the sofa while Hugh inspected the tree. After leaving the pub the previous night, Molly and her mum had come home and gotten to work decorating. It really did liven up the room, she had to admit. 

The afternoon with her mum and future in-laws was actually quite nice. She found a box containing her small collection of board games upstairs in the office, and they spent the better part of the afternoon at the kitchen table playing Trivial Pursuit and Parcheesi.

At half past five, Beckham jumped to his feet and darted into the living room. A moment later, they heard the front door open and close. Tom strode in, still working on undoing his scarf and coat. Molly launched herself out of her seat and nearly toppled him over when she threw her arms around him. 

"Well, hello," he said, patting her head. "What's all this?" 

"I just missed you," she said, tilting her face up toward his. He smiled and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then extracted himself from her embrace to finish removing his outerwear. Warm greetings were exchanged, but after he hugged his mother, she frowned at him. 

"What's that smell?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"What smell?" His smile faltered a bit. 

"You. You smell like perfume."

"I did just hug him," Molly reminded her. 

"No, this is different. Expensive. Nothing like Molly wears. No offense, dear."

With a sigh, Tom lowered himself into a chair. "Looks like I've been caught," he said. He ran a hand through his hair. "Let me go put my coat up, and I'll explain." He breezed out of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a small shopping bag. "It, um, was meant to be a Christmas present." He held the bag out to Molly. 

Curious, Molly reached into the bag. She pulled out a box. "Gucci Guilty," she read. She smiled. "You got this for me?" 

"It was an impulse buy. I had some time to browse a few shops before going to catch the train." He grinned. "A very pushy saleswoman insisted that it would be perfect for my favourite lady."

Molly opened the box and removed the bottle. She sprayed a bit on her wrist and sniffed. Stifling a cough, she smiled. "It's lovely," she lied. "Thank you." She took his hand and pulled him down to kiss him. She could feel the Gucci emblem pressing into her palm as she squeezed the bottle. 


	18. Catchin' On Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to stick _fairly_ close to the canon established in S4, which means I had to rethink the timeline of this fic just a bit. I'd originally said that John and Mary's wedding had been in August, but if Rosie makes her debut in late December or early January, it makes more sense that the wedding was in May. It doesn't really change anything about the fic except how far along Mary is. Anyway, on with the drama...

"Is... is this...?"

"Your father's." Darcy smiled as her daughter looked at her gift in awe.

"Mum, I can't--"

"Of course you can. It's just been sitting around gathering dust at home, and I couldn't bring myself to sell it. I know he would want you to have it. I even took it in for a setup, so it shouldn't have any surprise problems."

Molly strummed her fingers down the strings, assuming that the guitar was in tune. Reaching far back into her memory, she arranged her fingers between the frets into what she was pretty sure was the correct formation for one of the simple chords her dad had shown her in her youth. Another strum told her instantly that she had remembered wrong.

"Thank you," she whispered, tears shining in her eyes. "This means so much." Molly set the guitar aside and went to sit next to her mum on the soda, wrapping her arms around the older woman and resting her cheek on her shoulder.

All of the gifts were lovely. She and Tom had gotten a set of candles and fancy soaps for Darcy, a cheesemaking set for Georgia, and a book of travel photography for Hugh. Darcy had gotten Tom a leather laptop bag. Georgia and Hugh had gotten the couple a set of kitchen towels printed with lighthouses and a gift card to Ikea. In addition to the bottle of perfume, Tom had gotten Molly a set of bookends shaped like cats and a fluffy green throw blanket. Molly had gotten Tom an Arsenal jacket and a decorative photo frame containing a picture of them from their engagement party.

As nice as they were, though, everything paled next to her father's old Gibson. She couldn't wrap her brain around how her mother had managed to hide it in her luggage. It defied logic (not to mention physics), but she didn't care. Giving her mum's shoulders a squeeze, she went back to her spot on the floor and picked the instrument back up. She plucked at the strings, slowly working out how the notes fit together.

Christmas Day was remarkably peaceful. They spent the day watching telly and playing games, and Molly downloaded a chord finder app and managed to familiarize herself with a few simple guitar chords. By the end of the evening, she managed to pick her way through Silent Night and something that almost passed for Silver Bells with a fair amount of confidence.

At ten, the ladies were in the kitchen discussing Molly's wedding dress over a bottle of merlot when Hugh called, "Georgia, dear. You know Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

"Yeah," she called back, "what about him?"

"He's dead."

"What?" She got up and went to the living room, the Hooper women following behind her.

"Looks like a burglary gone wrong," Tom said, shaking his head. "Hell of a day to get murdered in your own home."

"Doesn't he own, like, half the newspapers in Europe?" Darcy asked. 

"Something like that," Hugh said. "How very sad. 

* * *

In the morning, Tom made a full breakfast. They had nearly finished eating when the doorbell rang. He excused himself to go answer it. A moment later, he returned, followed by a police officer. "Doctor Molly Hooper?" the officer asked. 

"Yes, hello," Molly said, setting her fork down and standing. "Can I help you?" 

"We're investigating a hit and run that occurred outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital last week. We understand that you were leaving work about the time it happened." He held up a hand. "You're not a suspect, of course, but we'd like to bring you down to the station for a few questions."

"I don't recall seeing anything," she protested. 

"I understand, but perhaps looking at some photographs may help jog your memory."

"But... my family is here, they're only staying one more night."

"We'll try not to take up too much of your time, Doctor Hooper."

With a sigh, she tugged on her ponytail, hyperaware that she had not yet brushed her hair. "All right. May I get dressed?" 

"Of course. I'll wait outside." With a nod, the officer showed himself out.

"A hit and run, " Georgia said, shaking her head. "Well, I do hope no one was badly hurt."

"Me, too." Molly leaned down and kissed Tom's temple. "I'll try not to be gone too long."

"Will you need me to come get you?" 

"No, I'll just take the train back." She looked at her mum, then her in-laws. "Sorry, everyone."

She jogged upstairs and changed into leggings and a teal jumper, then grabbed her coat and bag on the way out. When she got outside, she looked around for a patrol car. The only car at the kerb was a black sedan. _Maybe it's an unmarked car,_ she thought to herself. Buttoning up her coat, she approached the car. The back door opened, and she slipped in. 

The driver was no longer wearing a policeman's hat, and the only other person in the car was a well-dressed young woman seated in the back next to Molly. The woman was glued to her phone, tapping away and apparently oblivious that Molly was there and the car had started moving. 

"Hello," Molly said, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. The woman smiled but didn't look up. She looked vaguely familiar, but Molly just couldn't place her. "Are you a detective?" she asked. 

The woman smiled and arched an eyebrow, glancing up at Molly for a split second. "No," she said. She didn't appear eager to engage in any further conversation, so Molly left her alone.

Ten or so minutes passed before Molly finally said, "Do you mind if I use my earphones?"

"Not at all," the woman said, still engrossed in her phone. "Enjoy your podcast."

Blushing, Molly dug her earbuds out of the bottom of her bag. She plugged them into her mobile and, as predicted, turned on a podcast. By the time they arrived in central London, she felt much more knowledgeable about circadian rhythms than she had ever anticipated needing to be.

When they drove right past the police headquarters, her suspicion was confirmed that the hit and run story was a ruse of some sort. She put her ear buds away and stole a glance at the woman next to her. Squinting, she asked, "There was no hit and run, was there?" 

"No," the woman responded.

"Am I allowed to ask where we're going?"

"Of course."

A full minute passed before Molly realized that the woman was not going to answer unless explicitly asked. She sighed and asked, "Where are we going?" 

"Mr. Holmes has requested your company," she replied. _Why would Sherlock send a car and make up a story about..._  and Molly realized why the woman seemed so familiar. Mr. Holmes didn't mean Sherlock. Molly had seen her a few times when _Mycroft_ had been around on official business. Angela, maybe? Or Adrienne? No, something less common. Arachne? Alcatraz? 

She was still trying to remember the woman's name when the car pulled into an underground car park. The woman led her into a nondescript office building and into a lift. Several hallways and several lifts later, she lost track of where they were. Finally, at the end of a dimly lit hallway, they passed through a door and into a small reception area, and then through another door into an even smaller office. Inside, Mycroft Holmes sat behind a desk watching something on a monitor.

"Thank you, Anthea," he said, not looking up. She nodded and left the office. 

"Anthea," Molly whispered, "of course."

"What's that, Doctor Hooper?" Mycroft asked, glancing up at her. 

"Sorry, nothing." She pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "Is this your office?"

"A satellite. My personal office is, as I'm sure you would imagine, quite a bit nicer."

"I'm sure," she said, even though she had never given a single thought to what Mycroft's office looked like. "So, what's this about? Not a hit and run, I take it." 

"How perceptive. Have a seat." She did, and he folded his hands on the desk. "You may have heard that yesterday, a very powerful man was killed."

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," she said. 

"The very same. A botched burglary, or so the news would have you think." He smiled, but it was a grim expression. "How much do you know about Magnussen?" 

"Not much," she admitted. "He owns, er, owned a bunch of newspapers, and I know he's been known to rub important people the wrong way."

"Has he?" 

"Well, his papers... you know, some of them have... well, they've run stories. Stories about, um, important people. Like, government officials? And when there's a scandal, it seems someone always wants to point a finger at the man at the top."

" _Very_ perceptive, Doctor Hooper." He looked once again at the monitor, then back at Molly. "To those of us whose business it is to know these things, Charles Augustus Magnussen is known as the Napoleon of Blackmail. That is why he, indeed, rubs people the wrong way, as you put it. Someone gets on his bad side, he has a knack for discovering their deepest secrets. Continue on his bad side, and those secrets are revealed to the public."

"That's awful."

"Indeed. It seems his killer agreed."

"I'm sorry, but what does any of this have to do with me? Because I've got family visiting, and--"

"We have the culprit in custody. He has requested your company."

"Me?" She felt herself go pale. "What... what would a... would someone like that want... with me?" 

"What indeed." He pressed a button on the desk. Almost immediately, the door swung open, and Anthea poked her head in. 

"Sir?" she said. 

"Please escort Doctor Hooper to the cell," he said. "You needn't worry. He is disarmed and secure. You will be in absolutely no danger. You may leave your coat and bag here in my office, if you'd like." In spite of his cordial words, his tone implied quite clearly that she would not be permitted to take her things with her. She removed her coat and, after a brief hesitation, put her mobile in her purse. Taking a calming breath, she followed Anthea out of the office and through another maze of hallways and lifts.

"You have twenty minutes," Anthea said as they approached a door. She punched a code into the keypad beside the door, then swiped an ID badge, and finally pressed her thumb against a sensor. The latch in the door clacked and echoed as it unlocked, and Anthea gestured for Molly to enter. 

Once inside, Molly jumped when the door closed behind her. She was in a tiny, dimly lit cell, and a man was seated on the cot in front of her, dressed in a standard grey prison uniform. When he looked up, she was sure she felt her heart stop. 

"Hello, Molly."


	19. How Can You Lose What You Never Had?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever since I've updated this story. Long story short, depression is a bitch. But I'm back now, and, fingers crossed, I'm not going anywhere this time. **Thank you** for sticking with me throughout my long hiatuses. We've still got a long way to go before we reach the final chapter.

"Is this a joke?" she asked, as soon as she found her voice.

"If it were, I'm sure it wouldn't be very funny." He smirked up at her.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

"I've been taken into custody on a murder charge. I thought that much was obvious."

"Clearly, but why would anyone think you killed Magnussen?"

"Because I did kill him." At his words, Molly's vision swam. She leaned back against the closed door to keep herself from staggering.

"You... you _what?_ "

"Killed him. Shot him in the head."

"You didn't. You can't have."

"I did. John was there, he witnessed the whole thing. He's in this facility somewhere, too. Probably being debriefed on the 'official' story."

"John... saw you...?"

"Yes. Mycroft, too, and a fair number of his agents."

"I... I don't understand."

"A T-shirt indeed," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." He stood and crossed the room, taking both of her hands in his. "How much time did they give you?"

"Twenty minutes."

"How generous." He sighed. "Molly, I will be leaving London."

"But--"

"I may not be... it will most likely be a long while before I return." He gave her that sad smile she had seen so many times in recent months. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"You know what."

_Dejection.  
Despair.  
Hopelessness._

She looked up at him, at the mess of curls atop his head, the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way one eyebrow sat just a tiny bit higher than the other. She knew she was memorizing his face. One awful man's death had taken him away from her years ago, and now another's was to do the same. Despite his attempt at reassurance, she doubted she would be lucky enough to get him back this time. But she understood the parallel. Tears welled in her eyes, and she could barely get the words out.

"What do you need?"

"You." He pulled her into his arms, and she held on to him like he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. Her heart felt shattered into so many pieces that she just knew it would never go back to exactly how it was.

They stayed like that for a long time, her quiet weeping the only sound in the room. A series of beeps sounded behind her, and Sherlock pulled her back in time to avoid being hit as the door swung open. She heard the clacking of Anthea's heels on the concrete floor, and she pressed herself tighter against Sherlock.

"It's time, Doctor Hooper."

"No." She had thought that her tears had all gone, but she began to sob in earnest. "No. Not yet."

"Molly, look at me." She loosened her hold just enough to look up at Sherlock. "I'll be fine. And so will you."

"No. I won't."

"You will. You will be taken care of."

A guard walked in behind Anthea and surveyed the scene before him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman placed a hand on his shoulder to silence him. She watched the pair with a look of compassion that Molly would never have expected from anyone who worked so closely with Mycroft Holmes.

"You should go," Sherlock said, gently extracting himself from her embrace. "Or else Mycroft will come to get you himself, and he won't be pleased."

"Sherlock, I lo--"

"Don't." His voice broke, and he turned away. "Please."

She felt a hand around her elbow, and she reluctantly allowed Anthea to pull her away and out of the cell. The walk back to Mycroft's office was mostly just a blur to her. When they arrived, she was sat down in a chair, and Mycroft regarded her closely.

"I assume I don't have to tell you that everything you have seen and heard here today is confidental."

"Of course," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Anthea will return you to Sutton. Do you need anything before you go?"

"Will he be coming back?" Her throat was so dry that she could barely hear her own voice.

"It's impossible to say." He leaned back in his chair and heaved a great sigh. Molly noticed for the first time how tired he looked. She considered how difficult his position must be, having to watch helplessly as his little brother was sent away for a crime he couldn't protect him from.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"As am I, Doctor Hooper. Good day."

* * *

Molly returned home to find her fiance, mother, and future in-laws in the kitchen chatting over tea. She had managed to mostly pull herself together during the car ride, but the looks on their faces when she entered the room told her that she hadn't wiped all traces of her sadness from her face.

"Molly," Tom said, standing and going to embrace her. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Was someone hurt badly?" Georgia asked.

"Yes," Molly said, biting her lip to keep from crying.

"Oh, dear. Will they be all right, though?"

"No. No, not ever again." She pulled out of her fiance's arms and went to sit next to her mother.

"I'm so sorry," Darcy said, taking her daughter's hand.

"Listen, I don't mean to minimize anything or sound insensitive," Tom said, sliding into the seat next to Molly, "but you cut dead bodies open for a living. I'm surprised to see a car crash victim's death affect you so much."

"Tom!" Georgia scolded, glaring at him.

"It's all right," Molly said, rubbing her face. "I think I've just been away from work too long. I haven't taken this many days off in years. And I'm sad that I had to miss out on time with you all!" She forced a smile. "But we've still got one more night together, yeah? Let's do something fun tonight."

After a lengthy discussion, they finally decided to go to the cinema. Molly hardly paid any attention to the film, though. All she could think about were the terrible secrets churning inside her. She wondered if she would be breaking any laws by talking to John about it all. Certainly he was exempt from the expectation of confidentiality, having been present for the incident.

For Molly, the remainder of the evening passed as if under a thick fog. By the time she crawled into bed, she felt like she had aged a decade. 

* * *

Morning came, their relatives left, and the fog remained around Molly. Once she and Tom had the house to themselves, she went back to bed. Ten minutes later, Tom walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. 

"Molly, what's going on?" he asked, placing a hand on her hip. "You've been so all over the place these last few days."

"I'm just worn out," she mumbled. "Having company is exhausting."

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Well, once your nap is over, there's a mountain of laundry from the last few days. I'll get the dishes, you get the laundry, yeah?"

"Laundry. Sure." Toby hopped up and rubbed his face against her nose. Tom stood and started out of the room. He lingered in the doorway.

"Babe, have you considered... well, maybe I shouldn't ask."

"Considered what?" 

"Those pills you said you were on at uni. Have you thought about starting them up again?" 

"What for?" 

"I'm worried about you." He folded his arms. "I mean, you're the doctor, not me. But maybe the stress of all these life changes is taking a toll on you. It's okay to ask for help, you know."

"I know." She pulled Toby under the blanket with her. "I'll be fine once I've gone back to work."

"Just promise me you'll keep it in mind, all right?" He chuckled. "Don't want you to have to spend our honeymoon in a madhouse."

She heard his footsteps in the hall, then on the stairs. The sound of Toby purring against her chest lulled her off to sleep before she had time to cry.


End file.
